


Kneeling

by ianavi



Series: Abandoned Tea Cups [1]
Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternative Universe - Sherlock's not a detective, Anal Fingering, Anxiety, Bedwetting, Body Worship, Come Marking, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Care, Mention of Past Overdose, Nightmares, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Oral Sex, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Prostitution, Scars, Self-Harm, Sleeping Together, Tea, Triggers, University, Virgin Sherlock, bad first time, care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going on one's knees can mean many things.</p><p>---</p><p>Anxious as a child, awkward at university, self-harming and escaping into drugs - this AU Sherlock is not a detective, does not deduce crime scenes, never meets a man called Moriarty. No need when the enemy, your very own Moriarty, is all in your head...</p><p>Heed the tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kneeling, naked but for his socks, cold, he felt wrung out and yet his stomach was still heaving.

Kneeling, naked but for his socks, cold, he felt wrung out and yet his stomach was still heaving. Both hands gripping the cold porcelain edges of the toilet bowl, his hair damp with sweat, as was his skin, shivering. A pile of crumpled clothes next to him on the tiled floor. He vomited once again, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, saliva trailing, then inched to the side to reach for some toilet paper. His gaze fell towards his genitals, cock limp, an empty crumpled condom still clinging to the tip of it, his left thigh striped with a mucusy residue. He heaved once more.

University had at first seemed everything he had waited all his youth for. He had before him a challenging program in chemistry, possibility to take extracurricular classes on the side, some of the country's highest ranked experts, extensive libraries. And the laboratories, well. His hand rose frequently to pose a question or offer a comment during his lectures.

He assumed the other students, his colleagues, his peers, shared his inquisitiveness, his passion, had like him waited too long for an environment to fit in. Well, he was wrong.

As they left their first exam he felt exhilarated, in need of celebration. He couldn't shake his smile. Another student approached him extending his hand and he, grinning like a madman, went in for a congratulatory hand shake. That was met with a soggy eraser, one he'd forgotten he had handed over at the start of the exam, and a very grim face.

It seemed most of the others were here to suffer through the classes and exams with as little effort as they could dispense. As if they'd arrived on campus by taking the wrong bus and now had to bare with it. It seemed the compensation for their years of torment would be an "annual salary", a phrase frequently repeated.

After the early enthusiasm of introductions and exchanged numbers and emails he'd found himself alone. Ignored in his shared room by his roommate who was more interested in alcohol and screaming at screens showing sports matches. Sitting alone in the cafeteria, or with one or two others deemed just as unpopular. Working, reading, learning, as much as he could.

Oh, he did well with his professors. More than one had offered the possibility to take part in scanning data, preparing illustrative graphs, copying worksheets for lab work. But as the months and then years passed he found himself as much alone as he'd been as a child at home, a young man in school. Alone. A very good student. A possible future respected member of academia. Alone.

He'd dropped a few tomes at the library one morning. As they loudly hit the floor she looked up at him. She was conventionally beautiful. And smiling. And later came to ask him a very random question that resulted in an exchange of phone numbers at her insistence.

They'd had coffee on two occasions. Mostly she spoke. He responded with all the proper questions, smiles, raised eyebrows. Inexperienced, he'd read up on it online. She did not ask him much about himself or his studies. But did comment on his physique, "tall, dark and handsome", with an occasional giggle.

It all moved fast after that. An invitation to "pick her up from her room". A missing roommate. A locked door. Soft kisses that turned into aggressive grinding. He felt as if riding out a storm but his body responded and she seemed pleased at that.

Before long they were semi-naked. She was sitting in his lap, obviously feigning panting and throwing her long hair left and right. He felt a spectator, distant, lost as this game progressed.

It was soon clear he did not know what to do, which amused her but did not slow the progression of clothes dispensed with, painful scratches across the skin of bare his chest, a search for a condom.

It should have felt good. It did not.

As she put on the condom on his already failing erection and began to thrust herself against him dramatically wailing he felt nausea overcome him. He was trying to speak but could barely breathe.

He shook her off him as gently as he could and bolted from the narrow bed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" and "Freak!" and much worse but his ears were buzzing and he was nearly hyperventilating.

Grabbing his clothes, most of them. Pulling his coat on. As he ran out his own shoe hit the back of his head. He did not turn around. He did not remember how he made it to his own bathroom.

Stomach beyond empty, he stood in the shower scrubbing at his skin. The hot water and soap burned and he took a moment to look down his chest riddled with red marks. Dry heaving with barely any strength left in him he sunk his own nails as deep as he could and pulled across the offending marks repeatedly.

He lay on his bed, exhausted, empty, red streaking the front of his plain white t-shirt in places. He closed his eyes, brought one hand to rub at his chest even though it was painful. Maybe because it was painful.

There was lab work in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was choking, the man pushing into his mouth roughly, without care. Some man he knelt in front of. Some man in an ill-fitting suit, smelling of sweat and cheap whiskey.

Just a bit longer. He was sure it was about to end although he was too out of it to tell how long it had already been happening.

He was choking, the man pushing into his mouth roughly, without care. Some man he knelt in front of. Some man in an ill-fitting suit, smelling of sweat and cheap whiskey. Some man tearing at his hair with his fat hands and cumming down his throat.

"Stupid junkie." He felt a hard slap across his face. But it hardly mattered now, it was over.

Left alone, coughing and spitting to the side, he picked up the bills thrown on the ground of the alley and sitting back on his heels lifted the edge of his shirt to wipe at his mouth and face. His fingers were twitching. He brought his other hand to scratch at his exposed chest, opening some of the scabs.

That was seven years ago. But it still came to him. The glimpses of memories had their own undecipherable schedule. He blinked and returned his attention to the computer screen in the middle of a well organized work surface, reflexively smoothing out the front of his immaculately white lab coat with the palm of his hand.

The work. He loved the work. And he was so very good at his work.

One of the top labs in the country, sleek, efficient, filled with competent staff, well funded. This was everything he wanted. Everything he'd had to fiercely fight back for after a couple of bleak years.

Sighing at the nervous reaction the memory provoked he stood up ready to grab a cup of tea and continue with his mind clearer and more settled. He had three papers mid-development, several strands of inquiry to discuss with a German colleague, a promising intern to push in the right direction.

At home in the evening, wearing a worn t-shirt and pajama bottoms, legs crossed and laptop perched on his thighs, he reached for another cup of tea and yawned.

The living room of his flat was tidy and held only a small number of possessions. Two armchairs, one of which he was using, one sofa, one desk, its surface completely empty, and next to the obviously unused fireplace a shelf holding neatly ordered books and files. No trinkets, no crumpled newspapers, nothing on the floor but the regularly cleaned rug, no plants, no art, and no mirrors.

In fact there were no mirrors anywhere in the flat, not even in the bath. He relied on an electric razor and regular haircuts. He had no wish to look at his reflection.

The kitchen was connected to the living room and just as orderly. Only the tea kettle on the worktop. No dishes or food in sight.

He was consumed with the text on the screen, an article describing an innovative procedure he was eager to employ in his own lab. Once in a while a hand would travel up from the keyboard and fingertips would trace across his chest. This, this sorry tic, he allowed himself to indulge in this behavior only home, only when alone. He yawned again and closed the laptop.

"You're filthy!" The man laughed and pushed his face into the soiled carpeting with the side of his boot. He was pinned, unable or even unwilling to defend himself. He heard a belt unbuckle and panicked. Scratching at the floor and reaching to attempt to dislodge the boot from the side of his neck. And then he felt warm liquid soaking his back.

"No, no..." He jumped up in his bed, arms throwing off the duvet and scrambling to push himself against the headboard, hands instinctively out front in a gesture of self-protection. He was sweaty, breathing hard, disoriented. But here, safe, not there, no not there again. The small lamp by his bedside was on, as it always was, day and night. He reached for the glass of water beside it and spilled some on the way to his lips as his hand shook.

His phone displayed 05:34. Well, not too bad. He pushed the rest of the duvet off and rose to his feet. As there'd certainly be no more sleep he might as well get an early start in the lab. He did work best when alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then the doctor went down on one knee in front of him to pull on a sock on one of his dangling scarred feet. Then the other, and shoes. Loosely tied his laces.
> 
> He looked down in silence as this was happening.

It was a busy day, and he liked busy days. Morning meetings with colleagues over the latest data, multiple tasks to keep on top of throughout the day, the slight pressure and optimism of new findings that had yet to fit established patterns. This is why he was here.

What he didn't particularly enjoy were student visits. And although he tried to time his unavailability to coincide with the infrequent but tedious student tours, he had failed to do so this time. He refused to think it was due to exhaustion from lack of sleep. Lately he'd had a string of disquieting nights. He was unable to deduce what had triggered it. 

He'd employed all the usual techniques of dealing with possible disturbances as even seemingly small occurrences or exchanges could cause upset. The environment of his flat, the schedule of his work, the comforting layers of his well ironed shirts and suits, the breathing and relaxation exercises he regularly did. Careful to not forget food, a problem he had in the past where lack of sleep would lead to more missed meals than usual, and vice versa, a cycle that had on two prior occasions led to hospital stays. He was not willing to repeat those experiences.

The voice of one of his colleagues was coming closer through the long hallway behind his back, the shuffling and whispers of the student group.

He focused on his work and hoped not taking his eyes of the screen might signal he was occupied and not to be spoken to.

With a chorus of hushed voices and pointing fingers trailing him his colleague gave the few practiced sentences about this part of the lab. They were seemingly on their way out and he almost felt his shoulders relax. He turned to the side just in time to glance at one student reach out and pick up a container from one of the active working surfaces to read its label. It took him a moment but suddenly he understood what had happened.

"Idiot, put it down!" He was off his stool without thinking, one hand gripping the wrist of the student, the other snatching the container away and returning it to its place. The others turned towards the commotion.

Still grasping the other's hand and looking at his own that had touched the container he pushed them towards the water basin, bringing both their hands under a flow of water. In his haste, and perhaps due to sheer exhaustion, he'd been the idiot himself. No gloves.

"What, what happened?" The student was stunned.

His colleague promptly joined them. "Mike, one of your lemmings has gripped a container of HF. There could be residue on the surface." He gazed at his own hand under the water.

"Shit, ok, keep flushing it, I'll get the gel."

The student was now shaking. "What is it? I'm so sorry. I didn't..."

"It's hydrofluoric acid and now we may both have it on our hands."

"But I don't feel anything. It feels normal."

He rolled his eyes and glanced at Mike who was on the phone, presumably to arrange a medical screening.

After slightly more than the prescribed minimum of minutes Mike applied a slathering of calcium gluconate gel onto both the hands. And other two colleagues were at the door ready to transport them to the hospital. The sleeve of his shirt had been cut off at the elbow as a precaution although they were not sure if the textile had been in contact.

Idiot. And he wasn't thinking of the student.

Soon he was sitting in an examination room at the hospital, his hand resting on some gauze on his lap. Its appearance misleadingly normal.

"Well, this is rare. And two of you at once." A doctor entered the room looking at an opened folder. "The blood work does not look too bad, but let's be certain."

"Yes, two idiots at once, must be amusing for your staff." He grumbled.

The doctor chuckled. "No worries Dr. Holmes. We'll take care of you." He set the folder down, took out and put on a pair of gloves and approached. "Your colleague explained you followed emergency procedure, but I am sure there is no need to explain why a thorough screening is necessary to an expert like yourself." He tended to the hand. "No inhalation or eye exposure? Oral ingestion?"

"No. Just touched the container. And the other idiot touching the same container." He frowned.

"We'll get you something for the pain. I can do an ECG here. Then you'll see a burn specialist."

He flushed and stuttered. "I... no, I don't need it. Nothing for the pain. I... I am ok without it." He instinctively started to pull away his arm. The bad arm. The one holding evidence, the one no medical professional was allowed near since the worst of his early rehab days. Until today. The doctor glanced at him for a long moment, then slowly lifted what was left of his sleeve exposing the scarring.

He lowered his eyes. This was the moment. Addict. Junkie. Whore.

"OK, no opioids." The doctor spoke calmly, still holding the injured hand, his gaze not turning away but solid.

The nurse entered carrying supplies. "I'll start the IV doctor."

"Oh, I can do it." He intercepted her and reached for the supplies. "Dr. Holmes and I will be here awhile as it is, best not keep you from the other patients." His voice sounded relaxed.

She smiled at him widely before leaving. "Thank you Doctor, just call if you need me." Was there a hint of suggestion of something else there?

"All right. Here we go. First the IV. Let's get you out of what remains of that shirt and laying down."

He stiffened. The doctor noticed but reached for a pair of scissors and started cutting away from the already cut sleeve towards his neck. Then slowly unbuttoning the cuff on the other side and sliding everything off the uninjured arm.

There was a moment when his bare chest appeared. He now closed his eyes.

There was another brief moment of stillness, but then the doctor was helping him gently down onto the exam table, taking care to position his gauze-enveloped hand. Taking hold of the not-so-bad arm the doctor busied himself with introducing an IV.

"Now the ECG Dr. Holmes. I'll have to take your shoes and socks off." And he did, exposing more scars. Soon the doctor was attaching the soft electrodes to his chest, arms and legs. His touch was sure, gentle.

"Alright. Breathe normally for me now."

The procedure was soon finished, the electrodes off. And a sheet was laid over his exposed chest and tucked to his chin.

"Are you cold? I can have one of the nurses bring a blanket."

He finally looked up at the doctor. Who was smiling at him with an open expression holding a paper print out in his hand.

"All seems to be in order with your heart Dr. Holmes. Although I do advise further monitoring in the next days. You'll be in for a change of bandages as it is. I assume the burn unit will refer you back to us as it seems we got this in time."

He cleared his dry throat. Best to face it. "And the... the rest."

The doctor gave him a puzzled look. "The rest Dr. Holmes?"

"You haven't mentioned the..." he gesticulated towards his chest and then just around the outline of his body with his uninjured hand. In an instant of agitation he sat up clutching the sheet around him clumsily.

The doctor approached him and helped him wrap the sheet around his shoulders. "If you are ready to speak to me about 'the rest' Dr. Holmes, I am ready to listen."

He was not insisting. Why was he not insisting? Why were no urgent calls to the psychiatry department made? No further blood testing. No extra gloves to protect from contamination. No searching for contact of family members.

The doctor moved one of the stools closer to the exam table and sat down.

"If you feel you need medical help, or if you just want to talk, we have time until the IV does its job."

"You are not concerned Doctor?"

"About what?"

"Well... about me." The uninjured hand reached to touch his chest and with horror of exposing himself like this he pulled it down to rest on his thigh.

The doctor noticed but did not draw attention to it. "Of course I am. I am concerned about every patient in my care. Most have medical histories, some chronic conditions." 

He checked the IV. He was not wearing gloves any more and the brief touch on his forearm was warm and gentle.

"Some have a history of alcohol or drug abuse, some are still at it, but I don't think you are or we'd be having a very different exchange." Finally he gave him a stern look. "The ones who self-injure or have other symptoms, like eating disorders," Now he gave him an inquiring look. "I assess them for an immediate psychiatric evaluation and assistance. And I offer them my support."

"I got... I mean, I had support. I am clean now. And much better with food." He felt like a stammering teenager.

"Could do better still. Although I can tell from your blood work this is not acute any longer." Another check and gloves were back on to unhook the IV.

The doctor assessed his sorry state. He must have looked a mess. "Best keep the sheet as they take you down to the burn unit."

And then the doctor went down on one knee in front of him to pull on a sock on one of his dangling scarred feet. Then the other, and shoes. Loosely tied his laces.

He looked down in silence as this was happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a chemical engineer nor a medical professional. Some ideas came from research, some from experience as a patient.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dropped to his knees quietly sobbing. The bandage was getting soaked. He didn't care. He'll rip it off as soon as he got out of the shower anyway.

He woke from a dream. A different kind of dream. The bandaged hand hurt slightly. He gazed at it.

He'd dreamt of being touched. And unlike the horror that usually provoked in him, and not only remnants of events he could recollect from the worst days, this time it was different.

It was warm, both gentle and solid. It felt... comforting. He noticed his uninjured hand was palming his chest but he allowed it to continue.

He'd not only dreamt about being touched but about the man touching him. His hand, arm, then his chest. Both palms on his chest and it was somehow fine. In the dream the man, the doctor, had smiled and leaned towards him. Greying blond and his skin slightly tanned he radiated warmth.

He got up and walked towards the kitchen to start the kettle.

The shower was awkward, one hand in a plastic bag and out of the way of the spray of water, the other soaping his skin and hair. He felt imbalanced and leaned a bit against the wall.

As the water rinsed him he ran the tips of his fingers against the familiar terrain of scars on his chest. There had been no fresh scratches or cuts there for some time now but past damage left an ugly relief. He had always been careful not to look at it. Always kept himself covered.

Toweling off he took a deep breath, then several more breaths. He looked down. Fuck.

Dressed in a grey ironed shirt and trousers that were just a shade darker, the matching suit jacket still on its hanger, he drank another cup of tea and ate two biscuits standing by the kitchen sink.

He was on sick leave. It would be several days before he could return to the lab. And any work requiring hand dexterity was to be postponed or delegated to an intern. It would be fine.

In two hours he was scheduled for a change of bandages. He bit down on another biscuit.

"Hello." The doctor sounded cheerful. His smile was wide. "Sorry to keep you waiting Dr. Holmes, had a busy morning here." He went to the corner basin and scrubbed his hands.

"It's fine." He was aware he sounded curt. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm on sick leave, I have time."

Another beautiful smile. "Well, let's take a seat and look at that hand." The doctor pulled out the chair next to the desk and brought it to a small tray table covered in paper. 

He sat with both his hands in his lap, his back stiff. The doctor pushed a stool close, brought another tray of instruments and bandages, pulled on a pair of gloves and sat down facing him.

Taking his hand gently and setting it on the tray table between them he asked. "How's the pain?"

"Manageable. Not too bad."

The doctor hummed cutting off and unwrapping the bandage with sure and practiced moves. The hand was soon bare and a red patch of skin became visible, it was flaking slightly.

Still holding the injured hand gently the doctor prompted. "Flex your fingers please." He flexed. The hand seemed fine.

"Not too bad. But we'll have to keep it bandaged for a few more days."

The doctor shifted slightly to open a tube of cream and their knees touched. The doctor seemed oblivious to the contact.

His first instinct had been to pull away but he took a shaky breath and willed his leg the stay still. Then he felt that pull. Perhaps he hadn't shaken off last night's dream. He felt himself lean slightly forward.

Covering the burn with the cream the doctor's touch was light and unhurried. Even through the gloves it felt just as comforting as in his dream. He wanted to sink into that touch. Sink more of himself into it.

He had been staring at the hands working on his own so intently that he didn't notice the doctor was looking at him.

"If you are anxious about it I can assure you it is already healing nicely. Full mobility and no nerve damage. Minimal scarring, if any."

He looked up suddenly aware his mouth was gaping. He shut it. The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and started to bandage the hand.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." The gloves came off and the doctor stood up placing one hand on his shoulder. "I'll see you again tomorrow, ok?"

"Yes." That was all he managed, actively leaning into that touch. He blushed.

Sitting on the bed in his pajamas that evening he traced the edges of the bandage with the finger of his other hand. He had never wanted. Never.

Closing his eyes he pushed the bandaged hand under his shirt and rubbed it against his chest. His breath was shaky. The cloth bandages felt nice on his skin. He palmed at the front of his pajama bottoms at a stiff erection, then pushed his hand inside and wrapped his fingers around it.

He wanted to be touched, be wrapped in the man, rub his face against his neck, feel his hands under his clothes, on his skin. He was panting. He promptly climaxed, surprised, loud, exhilarated.

The next day he was slightly early for the appointment.

An older female nurse approached him, her gaze wary. "Mister Holmes?" He nodded. "Come with me, please."

He was taken to another exam room and pointed to the exam table.

She approached him with a tray carrying scissors and bandages, her gaze full of reproach. "Now, if you keep calm we can get this done sooner than later."

He gave her a puzzled look. "Excuse me?"

She already had the bandage off. "I have had experience with your sort. So don't give me any trouble."

He tensed up. "Where is the doctor?"

She smirked wrapping his hand none too gently. "Good doctors do not need to waste their time with problem cases, is that clear?" She handed him back his hand and disposed of the old bandage and her gloves.

Back home he stood in the shower under the hot water for a long while feeling utterly disgusted with himself. Rubbing his skin with soap over and over again. How could he have allowed himself to become so wrapped up in this ridiculous fantasy? He opened his eyes ignoring the sting of the soapy water and looked down at his ravaged chest, pocked arm, bandaged hand.

He dropped to his knees quietly sobbing. The bandage was getting soaked. He didn't care. He'll rip it off as soon as he got out of the shower anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Feeling better Dr. Holmes?"
> 
> "Sherlock. I'm Sherlock." He stuttered a bit. The doctor was kneeling in front of him and holding one of his hands to take his pulse, gently grasping and lifting his jaw with his other hand to peer up into his eyes.
> 
> "Good. Sherlock. I'm John." And John moved to sit on the bench beside him.

The following weeks brought about bouts of nightmares that left him shivering with cold sweat and unable to stay in the bedroom even with several lights on. He'd prepare a large pot of tea and wait out the darkness in the living room with his laptop.

Food became an issue again. But he was determined not to spiral down towards the then inevitable hospital stay. So he planned meals, prepared batches of glass food containers filled with things he knew would be easy to deal with. Forced himself to do one large shop each week and fill the fridge. He bought apples and bananas to take to work and place in his line of sight. It was also a good bet forgetting about them and allowing them to pile up would provoke comments from one of his colleagues, another safety measure.

The lab became his sanctuary as it had on many occasions previously during the bad patches. He took on more work and was after a while again calm and sleeping more hours. In fact his supervisor was thrilled as there were now more than the usual number of articles up for peer review in key journals.

He did not look down at his body again. Did not touch it past the quick showers and while dressing. With the winter coming and the days colder wearing an extra layer helped in more ways than just keeping the cold away. He did not romanticize but it was in a way his armor. He kept his appearance just as kempt as ever, every item professionally cleaned and pressed, a daily morning shave and a biweekly hair cut.

Days came and went, experiments, write ups, articles came and went. Basic chores like cleaning, cooking, paying his utilities went like clockwork.

He'd felt almost in balance again. Almost.

Bleak late autumn evening hours were difficult. He could never get warm enough. The heat was up. Tea was ready. There were several books and journals to choose from. Several seats and throw blankets to choose from. But the flat still felt cold and empty. He contemplated a television set but the dark reflexive sheen of the screen while off was an impossibility. He stuck with the classical music radio program.

Still he felt just as cold and empty as the flat.

Was it just about surviving? Day in and out? The lab, the flat, the suits, the cups of tea? Were they all just points of refuge?

Was this a life?

It was his life and he'd push aside any insecurities and abysmal memories. He had worked hard, fought hard, to have this. This was as good as it got.

To stave off the more nervous evening and weekend episodes he had taken up walking. Nothing prosaic like walking in parks, through gardens, by lakes. He'd set off on a meandering route through the city walking through the urban landscape of noisy roads full of cars, buses and pedestrians, streets full of blaring music and neon-lit shop windows. Walking as far away as he could until pure exhaustion set in, then taking the tube or, when lucky to spot one, a cab back to the flat.

He supposed this had also helped the sleeping issue as he frequently limped up the stairs to the flat and crawled straight under the bed covers.

It was during one of his itinerant Saturdays that he found himself in a bookstore. A display of maps, old and new, prints and open atlases, had drawn him in. Not too many customers. He wound through the bookshelves looking at different volumes and even taking some in hand. His reading was almost always related to his work. He rarely read books on other subjects and hadn't read fiction since his youth. He found himself in front of the cookbook section and his instinct was to hurry past. 

Well, why not face the enemy, so to say, he thought. Passing by the glossy photographs of colorful crockery filled with exotic and nicely staged meals he found a volume that sparked his interested. A guide on fermentation of different foods and drinks with descriptions of traditional techniques that included quotes from scientists and images of microscope enlargements.

He was so engrossed in the book he didn't notice someone approach him.

"Dr. Holmes?"

He froze. His heartbeat sped up. He did not lift his eyes from the now blurry pages of the book or turn around. He recognized the voice.

"Dr. Holmes, such a nice coincidence." The man was now standing next to him, the outline clear in his peripheral vision. Was the man grinning?

He could do this. This meant nothing to him.

"I can't do this." He managed to blurt out.

"Excuse me?" The doctor was now straight in his line of sight but he refused to look up. "Are you alright?"

His breathing was more erratic and he felt himself sway slightly.

"Please, leave me alone." This was barely audible and he dropped the book he was holding to steady himself by grabbing the edge of the bookshelf.

The doctor was saying something he could not discern.

He felt himself maneuvered to a nearby bench. Sure hands helping him sit down, unraveling his scarf and opening up two of his shirt buttons. His eyes were open but his sight was a fizz of bright pins.

"... that's it, another slow breath, that's it."

He was finally able to look at the man and was met with a cautious smile.

"Feeling better Dr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock. I'm Sherlock." He stuttered a bit. The doctor was kneeling in front of him and holding one of his hands to take his pulse, gently grasping and lifting his jaw with his other hand to peer up into his eyes.

"Good. Sherlock. I'm John." And John moved to sit on the bench beside him.

What an ordinary name for such an extraordinary man. He felt more in control and his gaze stayed on that handsome smiling face.

"Now that we've gotten the introductions out of the way do you mind me asking what just happened?"

"I felt wobbly." What a ridiculous choice of words. "For a moment. I feel fine now."

The doctor, John, was still holding his hand. They stayed like this for what seemed like minutes. Neither pulled away from the touch.

"Well, in my professional opinion a case of wobbly should be treated with a cup of tea."

He just stared at the man. Was he making a joke?

"Tea?"

"There is a nice place just next door, proper tea, fantastic scones."

"Scones?" Did his brain turn to mush? Why was he repeating random words?

John chuckled. "Yes, scones would be my second recommended therapy."

He got up helping Sherlock onto his feet. Not letting go of his hand and still smiling he lead him towards the front of the shop.

Just as they were about to exit through the bookshop's door John asked, "Oh, your book, do you want to return for your book?"

"What book?" He'd honestly forgot there had been a book. He flushed suddenly. "No, no need."

They found a booth to themselves. It was a nice place, Sherlock thought, comfortable but not ostentatious. Lots of natural light. The booth's bench curved around the round table made of solid wood. John left him for a moment to make the order and he found himself picking up one of the several books spilling from a tote bag John had left behind. A crime novel by a Norwegian author. The others seemed to be of similar content. Paperbacks.

"Yes, a guilty pleasure of mine." John had returned with a tray and was taking a seat quite close to him. "Could be worse though, could be romance." He laughed, looked away, and busied himself arranging the items from the tray in front of Sherlock. Was the doctor blushing?

"Milk, sugar?"

Soon tea was in cups and scones on small plates accompanied by generous amounts of jam and cream. He took a sip looking at the other man.

"Thank you. for helping with my... incident." He could not take his eyes off John's wide smile.

"Well, just lucky I wandered by just then. Though for a moment I did feel I'd disturbed you somehow and caused it." The smile faded into open concern. And there was nothing disapproving in that gaze, no distancing, certainly no disgust. No, quite the opposite.

He took another sip of the tea and cleared his throat "Yes, well, the wobbliness was not what I had initially planned for today, so indeed you were lucky."

And John just laughed, loudly, breathily. And he found himself laughing with John, although his own laughter was much quieter.

"Alright, alright, but I admit running into you was a nice coincidence. I'd thought I'd never see you again after you stopped showing up for your appointments."

The appointments. He brought the now healed hand closer under the table, feeling slightly uneasy.

"The hand has seemed to heal nicely. May I take a closer look?"

And again his hand was held by the doctor in both of his. And again the touch was warm, solid, comforting. It was pleasant. But soon the touch was gone and he felt an edginess creeping up.

"Well, looks like it healed nicely. I assume you went to another doctor?"

This may result in another three months of nightmares and disciplined recovery, but he didn't care.

"I took care of it myself." His voice was now low.

"Why on Earth were you taking care of it yourself?" John gave him a puzzled look.

He cleared his throat again. "I'd... I'd run into one of your staff who made it very clear persons like myself were not to... disturb you."

John looked at him as if he was insane. "What are you talking about?"

"It's not important. The hand healed."

John's face was stern, with a hint of anger. His words clipped. "No, no, it is very important. If someone on my staff mistreated you in any way I will make sure that person leaves the hospital immediately."

His stomach was fluttering in a strange way. He kept staring at the now visibly angry John who had gone a bit red in the face and had with stiff but quick movements removed his jumper leaving his hair slightly disheveled. He looked absolutely gorgeous and Sherlock was surely just as red in the face. He certainly was quite warm in his suit jacket.

"I apologize. I have an awful temper sometimes." John said straightening the collar of his shirt and bringing his hands up to his hair self-consciously.

Afraid he'd say something completely idiotic and inappropriate at the sight Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

John did not press the matter and they continued mostly in silence, but a relaxed one.

Outside the sun had gone down and the tea room was illuminated by wall lamps. Sherlock had not noticed, but was now aware his time with John may be nearing its end. And he did not want it to end.

He'd never done this before. But he was not letting the opportunity pass. "Would you like to have dinner?" He said with a tight voice.

The look on John's face. The open, unguarded joy. "Still hungry?" He gestured at the plate in front of Sherlock, one he was surprised to see was now empty.

"Oh, I.. I meant... Tomorrow, perhaps?" He was wavering.

"Yes, I'd like to have dinner with you, very much so." John was now openly flirting and Sherlock blushed, again. "Do you have a place in mind? Or perhaps we need to return to the cookbook section next door?"

"I..." He stopped speaking and was trying to take slow calming breaths. John must have noticed but he did not mention it.

John reached and took his hand giving him a reassuring squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for a good book on culinary fermentation try Sandor Ellix Katz.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some time John moved down to kneel on the floor in front of the armchair, both his hands at the back of his neck, then moving to cup his cheeks as he positioned his face directly in front of Sherlock's.
> 
> "Look at me Sherlock." John held his face in his hands. "You are fine. We are fine."

He had thought sleep would be impossible and walking up the stairs to the flat he'd started to map out the night ahead. First the routines. Even if he couldn't sleep he'd make sure he'd stay as relaxed as possible. Then some structured reading.

Upon entering his flat he took off his coat and scarf in a practiced swift move, then kicked off his shoes. He turned up the heat and went into the kitchen to start the kettle.

Buzzing about, changing into his pajamas, making the tea, looking through the post he'd brought in, eating his evening snack of a small container of yogurt from the fridge.

Just as he settled into his armchair and poured that first cup, an array of journals at the ready on the side table, he yawned. Three paragraphs into the first article he was having issues keeping his eyes open. Was it fatigue following the adrenaline rush of his afternoon?

He crawled under the warm duvet pulling it up over his head and promptly fell asleep.

He awoke with a start. Sitting up and rubbing at his eyes he noticed the room was quite bright. A sunny Sunday then. Good.

He stopped midway pulling his bathrobe on. Since when did he think about sunny Sundays as a good thing? Since when did he think about it being sunny at all?

Shower. And now he was losing the warm glow of waking from undisturbed sleep and nervousness was setting in.

Sunday meant a protein breakfast. He went about making an egg omelet with tomatoes and basil. Tea with a little milk. And the special treat of a spoonful of honey. He inhaled deeply as he stirred in the honey. Then sipped the tea eyes closed. This is part of the weekly plan, the series of scheduled events that kept him in check. 

And yet yesterday afternoon he'd devoured several scones covered with strawberry jam and cream without even giving it a thought.

John's smile.

He sipped more of the sweetened tea and exhaled loudly.

Nerves still in check he went about washing the breakfast dishes and wiping the kitchen countertops, then cleaning the rest of the flat, changing his bedsheets, packing the laundry to drop off on his way to work on Monday to be washed or dry cleaned.

It was barely noon.

He checked his e-mail, arranged his calendar for the following week, prepared the order for supplies he'd put in tomorrow.

He was too agitated to eat his planned lunch and chewed slowly on a banana instead.

More tea. And another shower plus a shave.

He entered the restaurant John had suggested exactly seven minutes late and with some trepidation. A small Italian place, its proprietor greeting guests, taking coats and helping the wait staff, all with a jolly laugh.

John stood up as he approached the table. Smiling. He looked absolutely gorgeous, light blue shirt and a navy cardigan. His eyes shone.

"Hello." John seemed almost ready to take a step towards him, but then corrected his posture and gestured for Sherlock to take a seat.

"Good evening." Too formal, he should have practiced beforehand. And yet John did not seem to mind, still smiling.

The waiter brought menus, John ordered some wine and sparkling water for both of them. He just kept nodding when asked anything.

He held his menu but looked over its edge to watch John's animated face as he described his favorites, mostly rich pasta dishes.

"Oh, you might be vegetarian, I never asked."

"Not vegetarian." He cleared his throat, for a moment he felt ready to reveal it all. "But, I have some issues..." He wavered. Of course he wavered.

"Yes, I remember our conversation."John set down his menu and gave him a calm and patient look. "If a restaurant is not comfortable for you we can do something else. Or see what here would work for you."

"I have meat or fish on Sundays." 

And John did not blink. "They do a fantastic baked trout encased in almonds."

"Oh, yes, that would be good."

The food was ordered, the same for both of them although John did not mention the trout when listing his favorites.

He smoothed the front of his suit jacket, replaced the cloth napkin across his lap.

John leaned down to grab something from his bag and slid a wrapped package across the table. 

"You seemed to be engrossed in it."

Sherlock took off the paper wrapping. It was the book on fermentation. He blinked. Twice.

"Should I have also brought something?" He looked up, worried.

And John gave him one of his hearty laughs. "No, nothing. Well, nothing besides yourself. That is more then enough for me." And John blushed.

So Sherlock blushed.

"Sorry, did not mean... The wine may have given me more courage than... Forget it."

Seeing John flustered made him feel a new kind of excitement. "No, I don't think I'll forget."

And they both laughed.

The fish came and they ate. It was quite flavorful and he finished most of it. It was a joy watching John eat. He clearly enjoyed every mouthful, picking from the bread basket and dipping the bread into the oil on the plate, taking long sips from his wine glass, humming as he wiped his lips with the cloth napkin. Sherlock was mesmerized.

John spoke of his work, some of the more difficult cases, some of the unexpected joys. Delivering a baby, stitching up the knee of a girl that persisted in playing football on a boys team, two police officers who flirted while guarding a patient that also happened to be under arrest.

Coffee was brought.

"Oh, and once we had two cases of hydrofluoric acid burns in one day..."

"Ah, two idiots."

"One of them was very charming." John winked.

John had winked and Sherlock stared.

John's expression changed and he took a deep breath. "I was worried when you did not show up again. I checked with the burn unit. Then..." He looked embarrassed. "I called your supervisor saying it was a routine follow up the hospital was required to perform."John shifted in his seat. "I was glad to hear you were back at work and alright. But I was overstepping." He took a pause and looked directly at Sherlock. "I had never felt that way about a patient before..." He dropped his eyes and was picking at some bread crumbs on the tablecloth.

"Oh." He was hot under his jacket but it was impossible to think about taking it off.

"Yeah, 'oh' describes it perfectly." John finally smiled again.

He felt a rush take him over. He wanted to push through. "John, you are aware of... my past, to an extent..."

John's expression was concerned but gentle, steady. "Some of it."

"There is a lot. And I am not sure..." He twisted the empty coffee cup on its saucer, his eyes down.

"Sherlock, just give me a chance."

His eyes snapped up to meet John's hopeful gaze and he spoke quietly. "Give you...?" 

He was suddenly feeling unsteady, his stomach more full than usual, the other restaurant patrons too loud, the smell of food overpowering. His hand was trembling and the cup shook against the saucer.

John took his hand in both of his and removed the coffee cup from his grip. He called the waiter and asked for the bill.

How does he ask for more? Another meeting? Another meal? How does he ask for a chance once John learns about it all.

Soon they were out on the street corner, John helping him into his coat.

"I am sorry, I don't know what came over me." He was truly embarrassed.

John buttoned his coat for him, wrapped his scarf loosely around his neck. It was at the same time ridiculous and somehow right. "Are you far? I can get a taxi."

Oh, time to go home. Maybe just as well, before he embarrassed himself further. "About twenty minutes on foot, I can walk. Prefer to." He was readying himself for their farewells.

"Would you mind if I accompany you?"

They looked at each other for a prolonged moment. Then John presented the elbow of his arm and took Sherlock's hand, curved it around and held it.

They walked in silence. Side by side and quite close. John was a solid presence. The night was cold and misty, not too many pedestrians out in this weather.

He was not sure which one of them led the way. Sherlock did indicate when to turn or cross the street, but it was John who seemed the one to usher them on.

Soon they were in front of his doorstep. And he still kept a firm grip of John's arm.

"I have tea..." He half croaked under his breath.

"Tea sounds perfect." John was all smile again.

He unlocked the door and John followed him in, then up the staircase. 

They entered the flat and Sherlock, on autopilot, took off his coat and scarf in his usual manner, then kicked off his shoes. He stilled for a moment aware John was just a few steps behind.

But John was already draping his jacket over the arm of the sofa, his bag on the floor next to it, leaning down to unlace one shoe. 

It shouldn't have looked so... at home.

He turned and walked to the wall, turned up the heat and went into the kitchen to start the kettle.

He peered at John who was walking across the living room towards the bookshelves.

"You've got a very nice flat." He was now near the bookshelf but turned to look into the kitchen where Sherlock stood holding a large tea pot.

"Assam?" His voice was again dry.

"Yes, that'd be great." John, standing in only his socks, had one hand on the back of Sherlock's favorite armchair, his expression open, eager.

Sherlock busied himself with the tea, then with pouring some milk from a carton into a small pitcher.

"Is this a real fireplace?"

He placed all of it on a small tray and brought it to the side table next to one of the armchairs. "Yes, although I've never used it."

"Why not?"

He was honestly surprised by the question. "Never really thought about it. And it must be messy." 

He sat down and poured two cups. "I am afraid I don't have any sugar, but milk? Or perhaps honey?"

John looked at him with a small smirk. "Honey?"

He was aware of the deep blush that painted his skin. "On Sundays... Oh, it's..."

John was now openly grinning. "I'm fine with just a drop of milk." He moved closer and poured some into one of the cups. "But I'd love to try the honey some time."

He stood so close. Sherlock, keeping his own cup steady, shifted quickly and sat in his chair. John sat opposite.

"Fireplaces are not that messy. And a properly built fire can keep the room comfortably warm throughout the night."

Sherlock took small sips feeling as if he was hiding his face behind the cup.

They sat drinking their tea in silence for a while. Sherlock poured them more, passed the milk pitcher to John.

John's voice was steady. "If there are things you want to share with me I am here. But you don't need to tell me anything and I'll feel the same Sherlock." He took a breath. "And I can also leave anytime you want."

He set the tea cup aside, then took it back into his hands, and simply spoke. "I am a junkie. No longer using but the addiction is always there. Always will be."

John sipped his tea and did not move from the armchair.

"But this you knew, from the scars. Well, some of the scars. You've seen there are others, more severe."

John nodded.

Sherlock shivered although the flat was warm and he still had his suit jacket on. He reflexively straightened the lapels. "I've had issues with food since I was young. It is under control now. As is the... scarring." He sighed. "Control being another issue. As I am sure you've deduced from the state of the flat, the scheduled meals."

John just sipped his tea and did not look as if he was jumping to run away anytime soon.

"And I'm a..." Shit. This one was hard. His voice was very quiet. "I've... have... prostituted myself for drugs, for money for drugs." He was a used whore and no matter how well kempt his suits were or his flat was, no matter how well he did in the lab, that was the truth about him.

"I've been tested several times since. I'm clean."

He looked at his twitchy toes, grasping the now empty cup in his lap.

And John stood up. Sherlock was about to collapse into that empty cup. It was over.

John stood up, took the two steps forward to stand directly in front of him, took the cup from his now visibly shaking hands and set it aside.

Then John pulled him forward, leaned down slightly and embraced him against his chest.

After a few tense and silent moments he trembled. And then he was sobbing. Loud and wet against John's cardigan. Grasping at its edges with both his hands, clawing at John.

John's arms were around his shoulders and his back, one hand in his hair. He held him.

"I don't care about your past." He leaned down further and kissed his hair. "But I do care about you."

Sherlock was unable to respond, weeping and grasping, sinking into John.

After some time John moved down to kneel on the floor in front of the armchair, both his hands at the back of his neck, then moving to cup his cheeks as he positioned his face directly in front of Sherlock's.

"Look at me Sherlock." John held his face in his hands. "You are fine. We are fine."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was biting his lips, twitching as he knelt unsteadily, his hand still grasping John's thigh, its muscles now rhythmically contracting.
> 
> John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked straight at him. And nodded.

He kept his eyes closed focusing on the slow rise and fall of John's chest. They were both sitting on the floor, John's back against the armchair, Sherlock settled between his legs, resting sideways in the doctor's embrace. 

It should have felt silly. He, wrapped in strong limbs, snuggled against the doctor like a child in the subtle light of the room. It felt amazing.

His suit jacket had come off as they'd maneuvered into the comfortable position and John was rubbing soothing circles into his back.

"This would work nicely in front of a roaring fire." John spoke into his curls.

He hummed his agreement and said softly. "I could have the fireplace serviced. It'll be winter soon." He pushed back slightly to look at John. "I'm inviting you for tea again."

"I'd love that." John gave him a wide smile.

And he, feeling bold and eager, pressed his lips against that smile. Softly first, just brushing. John, whose hands had stilled on his back, exhaled.

Soon their kissing grew more passionate. Sherlock sucking at John's lips, pressing his tongue to taste them, his chest heavy against John's. He was breathing hard, his eyes kept falling closed even though the sight of John's flushed face and lips bitten red was extremely arousing.

His hands roamed John's solid body, pushing under his cardigan to run his fingers against his stomach, feeling his strong arms, the skin of his neck, his jaw and cheeks. He let his long fingers spread to hold John's face to his own.

He was kissing John and unabashedly moaning.

Then one of John's hands slid under his untucked shirt and the fingertips caressed the skin of his lower back.

"John..." He had trouble catching his breath. "I want..."

"Anything you want." John whispered. His hair was all mussed, his clothes crumpled, cardigan half unbuttoned and pushed half way up his chest. Sherlock enjoyed looking down at the mess he made.

"I want to watch you." He slid one hand down John's chest to skim his very prominent erection with the tips of his fingers.

"Oh." John quietly croaked and closed his eyes. "Yes, anything you want."

Sherlock, looking at John's trembling lips, pushed the button of his jeans open, then let his hand slide onto one muscled thigh.

John looked straight at him and moved to undo and push down his jeans and the gray briefs he wore underneath. His cock, thrusting up from a thatch of unruly golden brown curls, very thick and aroused, its foreskin pulled back, lay against his stomach.

Taking a deep breath Sherlock gave him a slight nod.

John curled the fingers of his left hand around his erection and, still watching him, started to slowly stroke. The sight, the feeling of being the one who wanted this and could just ask and have this, John's quiet pants and quickening strokes, he was exhilarated.

He was biting his lips, twitching as he knelt unsteadily, his hand still grasping John's thigh, its muscles now rhythmically contracting.

John closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked straight at him. And nodded.

Without thinking he unbuttoned his own trousers and thrust one of his hands to push his boxers down and shakily palm himself.

He was beyond aroused and would come any moment. His hand still on John's thigh, he shifted closer, pumping his cock, panting loudly, and finally ejaculating over John's hand, cock and stomach.

And John, exhaling with a loud unsuppressed moan, slowed his strokes and soon climaxed pumping more semen onto his stomach and chest in several thick gushes.

They looked at each other breathing heavily. 

And Sherlock sunk one shaky finger into their joint mess, then brought it to his lips and sucked it into his mouth.

"Oh fuck." John closed his eyes and his cock gave one last twitch.

The taste was bitter but somehow right. And the sight of John, disheveled, sweaty, covered with semen, Sherlock's semen, still slightly panting. It was perfect.

"Stay with me tonight." He whispered.

"Yes."

Sherlock kissed him. Slowly and deeply, pushing his tongue beyond John's open lips, licking and sucking. He took his time and John responded by lazily running his hands over his back, hips and thighs.

He repositioned himself to snuggle against John's chest again, not caring about wet shirts and unbuttoned trousers. "I trust you." He whispered.

"I trust you too."

They stayed like this for some minutes, breathing together.

He felt John yawn. And Sherlock giggled. He giggled?

"Time for shower and bed?"

John was smiling and blinking sleepily. "The shower can wait until morning."

They separated and with some cracking joints and grunts got up from the floor. John was straightening his clothes, the cardigan looked fine but his shirt and jeans bore telltale stains. He looked at Sherlock and laughed. "I feel like a teenager."

Sherlock sniggered. "Well I'm glad you're not one." He took John's hand. "I'll make some chamomile, would you like a cup?" 

"Yes, that would be good." John kissed him.

Sherlock made the chamomile and as it was steeping took a very quick shower and changed into his pajamas.

He returned to the kitchen where John was pouring the infusion into two cups. He looked up to see Sherlock barefoot and straightening his collar under damp hair. He smiled, walked up to him and kissed him once more. "I didn't bring pajamas."

"Fantastic news."

And they both laughed. Sherlock felt relaxed and at ease. They sipped the tea standing in the kitchen.

Settling in to sleep with someone should have felt strange as he'd never done it before. But it just happened. He pulled down the duvet on one side crawling under it and John walked to the other side, stripping down to his briefs, his clothes neatly folded on a nearby chair, and crawled under the covers next to him.

"My alarm goes off at 7, is that too early for you?" John moved to nuzzle at his side, kissing his cheek.

"Oh, no, I might be awake by then." And something occurred to him. "John..."

John hummed loosely wrapping one arm around his waist. He couldn't help snuggling into the embrace, it felt comfortable. He yawned, his own eyes closing.

"I am not a very good sleeper..." Then quietly. "And I need to keep the nightlight on."

"That's ok." John quietly responded and kissed his shoulder.

Sherlock had no recollection of falling asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down on one knee next to the sofa and reaching into his bag John pulled out a toothbrush. They looked at each other and laughed.
> 
> "Sure of yourself?"
> 
> John blushed scratching at his stubbled cheek. "Hopeful, I guess."

It was early, still dark outside. The nightlight cast a low glow in the room. He blinked and inhaled.

Sweat and sex and warmth. He was laying pressed to John's chest, almost fully on top of him, his face buried against his neck, one knee pushed between the man's legs, his arm possessively wrapped around John's hips with one hand gripping a buttock.

He felt his cock stir and inhaled again. The front of his shirt was damp with sweat but he didn't care.

John was quietly snoring and seemed not to be bothered by Sherlock's weight and searching hand.

He was aroused but at ease. It felt right. John, in his bed, carelessly stretched out in only his underpants and asleep. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth.

He must have dozed off again and woke to John stretching to reach a softly chiming phone.

He moved to untangle himself but John settled back and wrapped both his arms around him and kissed into his locks. His voice was rough with sleep. "We have a few minutes."

Sherlock was again aware of the hand that now had one thumb poking under the elastic of the briefs. He attempted to slide it casually towards John's hip.

John chuckled running the fingers of his hand under his pajama top over bare skin of his lower back. "Pleasant dreams?"

"No dreams. The reality is much better." He pushed himself up to look at John. John's hair was tousled and eyes looked sleepy. He was gorgeous. Sherlock kissed him softly and John kissed back. It was very gentle and slow and neither man seemed preoccupied with their obvious erections. John now had both hands up Sherlock's shirt just tracing the muscles of his back.

John sighed. "I'll have to get ready. Your place is closer to the hospital but at this rate I will be late."

"You can take the shower first, I don't need to be at work before nine. There are fresh towels in the cupboard." Another kiss. "I'll make some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?"

They both smiled. It was so domestic yet so extraordinary.

"Tea sounds perfect."

With one last kiss Sherlock untangled his limbs from John's and sat up.

He was in the kitchen, getting the tea ready as well as some toast and butter, his regular breakfast. He was wondering if John would need something more substantial when the man walked past the kitchen damp and wearing only a towel low on his hips. Sherlock could not help taking two steps to see where John was going.

Down on one knee next to the sofa and reaching into his bag John pulled out a toothbrush. They looked at each other and laughed.

"Sure of yourself?"

John blushed scratching at his stubbled cheek. "Hopeful, I guess."

It was another long moment of breathless kissing against the door and then Sherlock was alone.

He straightened his bathrobe and walked through the flat humming a tune, not at all hurrying to go to the lab. There was a half eaten piece of toast laying next to John's tea cup on the kitchen table, crumbs too. The book on fermentation next to it. 

In the bath a damp towel was draped over the side of the tub and his own toothpaste was squeezed in the middle. He laughed. Yesterday it would have been a sight that disturbed him but now he could only imagine John's fingers pressing into the tube. He liked the idea of John using his things. He liked the sight of John's forgotten toothbrush on the side of the sink even more.

And finally the bedroom. The duvet pushed down, one corner dragging on the floor. His pillow askew. Smell of men and sweat and breath. He knew he was smiling. He knew he'd leave the bed unmade, the crumbs littering the table until evening. He went for his shower contemplating whether he was feeling bold enough not to straighten the toothpaste tube. He shook his head with a laugh.

The following days went by in a blur of work and phone messages. John thanked him for 'dinner and hospitality', Sherlock joked about holding the toothbrush for ransom, John complained about lack of interesting patients, Sherlock suggested he might take up fireplace servicing as a hobby.

Another dinner was planned for Friday. By Wednesday evening Sherlock was feeling less carefree and slightly apprehensive. He stood in the supermarket, the cart full with his carefully planned weekly shop plus a bottle of wine. He was staring at the condom selection holding a bottle of lubricant. His hand was shaking slightly and he felt sudden trepidation wash over him. He looked down at the front of his buttoned coat and blinked several times before closing his eyes.

He wasn't ready for this. He put the lubricant back and pushed the cart to the checkout queue.

He ignored any new messages on his phone that evening and didn't sleep that night. He knew scrubbing the bathroom clean at three in the morning was a bit not good but it was something to do.

He was tired, twitchy and short-tempered the following day, snapping at the interns who all disappeared from the lab before lunch. His threw his prepared meal of rice and vegetables straight into the trash not bothering to save the glass container and took another cup of coffee.

He kept his phone on silent.

The next night was marred by two nightmares and he felt even more exhausted. He kept quiet at work, ignoring everyone and sticking to tea and an apple.

He walked back home preferring the chill of the near-winter air to the stuffy tube. He should tell John this was not going to work, tell him before they were scheduled to meet at the restaurant that evening. It was starting to rain, he turned up his collar and sped up his steps. And just then his phone vibrated. It was John. Better deal with this and get home to a hot shower. He picked up the call.

"What's your opinion on popcorn?" John sounded serious.

"What?" He stopped walking.

"Popcorn, the cinema variety. Way too salty and sometimes stale."

"I... I don't understand."

"Would you walk with me to the nearest cinema and sample their popcorn?"

"Are you serious?"

"Well, it's a better plan than standing in the middle of the street getting soaked through in this cold."

Sherlock looked up to see John standing in front of his building. Shoulders tight he looked cold in his too light jacket and no umbrella. Sherlock felt his stomach stir. He intensely wanted to walk up to John and bite into his lips, feel the warmth of that solid body. And yet he felt as if taking any step closer might make him even more nauseous.

"Sherlock, if you don't want to see me just tell me. I will walk away and never bother you again. I promise." His voice was tight.

The rain was now really pouring and he felt lost and numb standing there silent for a long while. The hand holding his phone dropped down to his side. He wasn't moving.

John was. John took his phone and his hand, ushered him to his door and helped him with the key. Then up to the flat and on to the sofa.

His coat was off as were his soaked through shoes and John was rubbing his hair gently with a large towel.

He finally looked up and was met with a cautious expression.

"Feeling better?"

John wrapped the towel around his neck and stepped back.

"I can leave. But not until I know you are ok to stay on your own." 

He finally managed with a slight nervous tremble in his voice. "I've always been on my own. I do fine on my own."

John sat down next to him on the sofa and sighed. "I do fine on my own too. But... I want it to be better than... just fine."

Sherlock was becoming increasingly more agitated. And he did not know if he was more frustrated with John's patience and tenderness or his own inability to just do what he wanted. He looked at John, who was rubbing his hands against his thighs, hair still wet as were the shoulders of his shirt.

"I've stuck needles into my arms, feet. Overdosed twice."

John nodded.

"I've sucked men off in filthy toilets for money or a hit."

John stopped rubbing his thighs.

"I've been beaten and on one memorable occasion nearly raped. But they enjoyed the beating too much to stop and strip me fully. Cracked ribs, broken wrist."

John was breathing unsteadily but he did not look away.

"And that's the least of it. You've seen it, you've seen the scars. The worst of the damage was my own doing. Ripping the skin open, cutting..." His voice cracked. "And the damage is worse under the skin. The consequences of all that. Everything about me is ruined, broken. If you looking to fix me..." His hands were gesticulating at his chest shakily and his eyes were filling with tears.

"No." John whispered.

"So you prefer me broken, sick, fucked up?"

John took one of the flailing hands, brought it to his lips and kissed the palm, then wrist.

Sherlock was now openly crying.

John whispered against his wrist. "I trust you." And took him very gently into his arms.

He sobbed holding on to John, trembling for long minutes. He wanted, he wanted so much.

After a while John took the edge of the towel and wiped his face, his runny nose. He must have looked like a mess and but John's eyes were warm.

"What do we do now?" Sherlock asked.

"I wouldn't mind a pair of dry socks, but that can wait." John embraced him again.

An hour later, John wearing a pair of dry and slightly too large socks, they were sitting in a cinema sharing what the ticket girl referred to as 'the couple's seat' with a large bag of popcorn between them, the film opening credits rolling.

"This is ridiculous John."

"Shush, have some popcorn, the film is starting."

He took one kernel and put it in his mouth. John was smiling.

He didn't really pay attention to the film but looked at John or their hands joined on the seat between them, fingers intertwined. He ate a bit more popcorn. It was too salty, John kept licking his lips.

Sometime during the film Sherlock carefully leaned closer and rested his head on John's shoulder. That led to him kissing John's neck, then sucking on his earlobe while pushing one hand under his shirt to rub his stomach. John's eyes were closed and he rested one hand on Sherlock's knee, the other on his exploring hand.

There was more kissing and explorative touching. By the time the film ended neither of them had any idea what it was about.

John straightened his clothes clearly flushed in the cheeks and they left.

They stood in the street holding hands.

"Thank you, this was nice." Sherlock was reluctant to let go, but still not ready to take John home again.

"I'd very much like to see you again." John rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand.

"Lunch tomorrow?"

John smiled and nodded, then kissed his cheek.

He took the taxi home, had a long shower and crawled into bed exhausted. Then he noticed John's socks on the chair next to the wardrobe. He stepped out of the bed and took them, trying them in his hands. Cotton, now dry, black and slightly threadbare at the heels. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled them on, then wrapped himself in the duvet and promptly fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John quickly eyed the shelf, selected one vinyl record and kneeling at the low table set it up with practiced, precise and measured movements. He readjusted the parts of the machine, moving the arm from the arm rest and slowly setting the lid back down.
> 
> Getting up John snapped his fingers and turned towards him. "Here we go." The room filled with a soft crackling of the record, then a single female voice singing a ballad in low husky tones.

This time he was a few minutes early at the restaurant. It was a Korean place he had visited twice before. His own cooking skills were adequate, well rehearsed in the past years to meet his needs, and he didn't particularly enjoy restaurants but once in a while liked to challenge himself with something new. Small risks, small steps. Seven years of small steps and now he might be approaching a leap.

He sighed keeping his composure and analyzing the changes in the menu since he'd last visited trying to keep his eyes off the door. With winter fast approaching perhaps John would like a hearty stew.

"Hello." John walked up to the table unwrapping a scarf, his blond hair ruffled by the wind, his cheeks slightly red. And his magnificent smile. Gorgeous. "Getting chilly out there." He draped the scarf over the back of his chair, leaned down and with one hand gently placed on Sherlock's shoulder brushed his lips against his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and shivered slightly. It lasted only a moment. It made him feel wanted. It was thrilling.

"I hope you have not waited too long." He gestured at the steaming cup of tea on the table, took his seat and looked around taking in the understated decor and the grill built into the table itself. He looked so happy and relaxed, dressed in jeans and a thick oatmeal colored jumper. Sherlock felt a bit calmer.

"Oh, no. You are quite on time." He was grinning and John was grinning back. He forgot why this was difficult, leaned back into his seat and brought his ginseng tea closer wrapping the cup with both hands.

The waitress brought John the menu and he asked for the same tea.

John wasn't looking at the menu but at Sherlock, still smiling, occasionally bringing his hand to straighten his hair. He looked carefree, eager. "Any suggestions? It was my choice last time."

"Should we have some banchan to start?"

"Appetizers?"

"Oh, yes, small dishes, to share. Have you had Korean food before?" 

John briefly gazed at the open menu lost in the multitude of choices then warmly back at Sherlock. "No, never before... Why don't you choose. Surprise me."

Sherlock ordered for both of them. Soon plates were arriving filled with various vegetables in differently colored brine. Sherlock spooned rice onto their plates and spoke about each of the dishes pointing with his chopsticks. He spoke at length about the fermentation process in the making of kimchi and blushed when referring to the book John gave him.

Again their exchange was an easy flow. Again John ate with gusto, large spoonfuls of rice, trying all the dishes and commenting on different tastes and levels of spiciness. Beer replaced the tea.

He braced himself feeling more than ready for his leap.

"John... I..." He cleared his throat, then slightly nervous took another sip of the beer.

As if knowing exactly how the conversation will shift John extended one hand over the table and laid it open. After a beat Sherlock took it and leaned forward to continue in a lowered voice.

"The other night... In my flat..." John's gaze was steady and open, he caressed Sherlock's knuckles with his thumb. "You know some of my history. I have not been in any... relationships. Just... And I'm not good with people, I mess up, say or do the wrong thing. And it seems you'd like us to..." He sighed. "My apologies, I am usually more eloquent."

"We have time." John squeezed his hand. "I am not going anywhere. And yes, I'd like us to continue seeing each other. In any way you're comfortable with."

He pushed forward. "That... what happened the other night... That was the most successful sexual encounter I've ever had. As it was. Ever." He closed his eyes and took a breath.

John's voice was low and slightly rough. "Oh, yes, that was lovely."

He looked up at John, puzzled. "You really think so?"

John fiercely blushed and shifted in his seat. "Yes, it was, exceptional. If you'd ever like to do that again, or anything else." More squirming as John turned an even brighter red and reached for a sip of his beer. Was John aroused by the memory of what happened? Was that possible? But, he'd been so clumsy, so inadequate. Sherlock was baffled.

John straightened up a bit. "But, Sherlock, if that was it, if this is it," he squeezed his hand again, "I am fine with this. I enjoy your company, would be more than happy to stay friends if that's what you want."

He was determined. "I'd like more than friendship. But, I'm unsure how to go about it."

And another of those exceptional, radiantly warm smiles. "We can figure it out together. All right?"

The bill was paid, scarves were wrapped, and they were outside in the encroaching dusk bracing against a sharp wind. He'd not taken his gloves out although it was uncomfortably cold. He'd thought about somehow touching John's hand and his fingers were twitching nervously. He looked at the passing traffic.

"Come here." John took his hands and placed them on his waist, reaching to pull him into an embrace. It was unexpected, and very public, and somehow he didn't care. He sunk onto John's shoulder, wrapped his arms around his back and closed his eyes.

"I don't know what to do John."

"Do you want to go home? I mean, do you want us to part?"

He shook his head pulling John a bit closer.

John chuckled. "How about I make the tea this time? You can see where I live, it's not too far. You can decide how long to stay, when to go. You decide Sherlock."

"Tea would be nice."

Ten minutes in the cab and John was unlocking a door of a nondescript building.

Excited and very curious Sherlock followed him down a corridor past several other flats to John's own.

Another door unlocked, lights switched on.

"Come in, come in. Take your coat off. This is me." Giggling like a teenager John pulled him for another peck on the cheek. And throwing his own coat on the sofa took off across the small sitting room towards the kitchen. 

Pulling off his coat and scarf Sherlock took a look around. Amazing. It seemed every surface of the cramped room was covered by detritus of one John Watson. A pair of worn jeans and a frayed wool blanket on the single sofa, two used tea cups and an open laptop on the floor next to it. A desk strewn with newspapers and medical journals, a haphazard pile of shoes and an obviously broken umbrella by the door. A television in the corner. A tall shelf of vinyl records with the record player on a low side table seemed to be the only organized and uncluttered area.

A black cat walked into the room, took one look at him and ran away.

He just stood there and took it all in. He could hear water running from the kitchen, cupboards being opened. John humming.

He left his coat on top of John's and sheepishly proceed to the kitchen. It was in a similar state. A sink full of dishes, leftover burnt toast on one of counters sans plate, messy cat bowls on the floor. John stood in the middle of it shaking a milk carton with a pinched face.

"I only have regular tea. And no milk I'm afraid, it's gone off."

"Just tea is fine." Sherlock wondered if he should take one of the chairs.

"Oh, yes, I do have some digestives. Sit down, please." Sherlock took his seat and watched John rummage through a cupboard.

Soon they were sitting across from each other sipping tea. John kicked off his shoes under the kitchen table with a grunt. He was smiling, relaxed, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded him. Or was this an agreeable environment for John? Sherlock was eying the pile of post and take out leaflets that seemed to take up more than half of the small table. Somehow it did not make him uncomfortable, these traces of John's life. And that was curious in itself.

The cat reappeared, and with a meow jumped up into John's lap. "Oh, yes, this is George." John let the cat settle on his lap and started scratching behind its ears. "He's been with me these past three years. Keeping me company. I grew up in a big family, two brothers. Then roommates at uni and for some years after. Living alone was the adult thing to do, but it was, it is... well, lonely." He laughed and reached for another biscuit.

"And... partners?" Perhaps he was too nosy. He looked aside and started to think of something to say to change the topic.

"No, never lived with any of my girlfriends."

Sherlock paled. Opened his mouth then shut it.

And John laughed loudly. "Yeah, I'm bisexual. And you?" And he laughed more. "Oh, no, I mean, have you ever lived with anyone?"

"No not really. No siblings. Well, I did have several roommates at university. We didn't really get along. And I've been on my own since rehab." Sherlock took another sip of his tea watching John. "I actually like living on my own. Easier to keep a schedule... and all that." He eyed the ripped up envelopes spilling unpaid bills. "I'd probably be very difficult to share rooms with these days. Lots of self-imposed rules."

"Oh, I don't know. There is the fireplace to tempt a prospective flatmate." They laughed. "Let's move to the sitting room." John set George down, got up, touched Sherlock's shoulder in a warm gesture and walked towards the record player. He turned back and winked. "And a very comfortable bed if I remember correctly." Sherlock set his cup down. John was openly flirting. It made him feel hot under his jacket. He got up to follow. 

John quickly eyed the shelf, selected one vinyl record and kneeling at the low table set it up with practiced, precise and measured movements. He readjusted the parts of the machine, moving the arm from the arm rest and slowly setting the lid back down.

Getting up John snapped his fingers and turned towards him. "Here we go." The room filled with a soft crackling of the record, then a single female voice singing a ballad in low husky tones.

He took the three steps towards Sherlock who still stood in the middle of the room looking kind of lost. In a gesture that replicated his movements from earlier in front of the restaurant he took Sherlock's hands and placed them on his waist, slid his hands up Sherlock's arms.

John whispered. "I like you Dr. Holmes. Very much." Then reached up and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

He sighed, lowered his head and placed his cheek against John's. His hands slid up John's back tightening the embrace. "I like you, too."

John hummed in tune with the soft song and shifted his weight slightly, rocking side to side.

Allowing John to lead Sherlock stifled a giggle and snuggled closer to touch John's cheeks with his lips. "Are we dancing?"

"Yeah, I guess we are."

For a while they stayed like this, rocking softly, embracing, John's hands a steady presence on his shoulders and back. He shut his eyes and took slow deep breaths, breathing John in, tingling with desire for this handsome, no-nonsense, undeterred man who saw him as he was and still wanted him. He pulled back slightly and after a short breath kissed John.

Lips and tongues and panting breaths. He was burning with the need to have more, much more. And he was terrified.

"John?" His voice was barely audible.

John stilled and looked at him for the briefest moment. "Yeah?"

He didn't know what he was asking. Breathless, he sunk his face into John's neck.

"Come on." John shifted away and took one of his hands. "Let's sit a bit."

They sat on the sofa, John unapologetically pushing things aside to make room.

"Sorry, I get flustered."

John took his hand with both of his. "That's ok. Nothing needs to happen here Sherlock. And you can go home if you prefer."

He took a few breaths. "I'd prefer to stay." He squeezed John's hand. "And I'd prefer more kissing. Just... more everything. With you. But, yes, it is unnerving and I get slightly panicked."

"No rush. We can listen to music. Talk."

"But surely you have expectations. Even after the way I've behaved previously and now?"

"Sherlock, I am beyond thrilled you are here with me. This," one more squeeze and one more smile, "this makes me a very happy man." He looked around the flat and sighed. "I live alone, with a cat, work long hours. I spend Saturdays watching football in a pub or here at home. Dancing with a stunning man to some of my favorite music is beyond my expectations."

John was amazing. And Sherlock was an idiot. And it was somehow all fine.

"Football?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose and John burst out laughing.

And they watched football on the small television. Sherlock with his jacket and shoes off, the ratty blanket over his lap. John with a beer in hand, leaning forward at some of the more intense moments, the arms of his jumper pulled up and with ready commentary of the action.

Sherlock took the bottle from his hand and took a sip, then gave it back. He winked. John shook his head laughing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John extended a hand, smiling. "Come here."
> 
> Sherlock joined him on the bed but kept a bit of distance, kneeling for a moment by the edge of the duvet before settling at his side. It was hard to keep his eyes off the sparse blond hair that covered John's chest. He reached out and ran the tips of his fingers lightly over it. John shivered once more.
> 
> "No expectations?"
> 
> John placed his hand over Sherlock's. "No expectations."

He must have dozed off. His head was on John's lap, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders. The television was still on but its sound was muted. He shifted to look up at John.

"Hello." John smiled and touched his cheek.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"I don't mind. Although I think George might be jealous, that's usually his spot."

Sherlock sat up and checked his watch. "It's late, should I go?"

"Only if you want to. You could also stay?" They were both grinning.

Staying with John. It should have made him nervous but it didn't. He glanced at the television. "John, this may be a strange request... do you by any chance have some yogurt?"

John gave him a puzzled look. "Yogurt?" He started grinning. "Yeah, I think so. Come on, let's take a look." He got up and extended his hand towards Sherlock who took it and followed the giggling John into the kitchen.

The small fridge was cramped with food, vegetables, various chutneys, eggs. John rummaged through it, pulled out a large tub and set it on the table. He opened a drawer and took out two spoons.

Sherlock took a seat. "You cook?" He opened the tub. Plain yogurt, a few spoonfuls missing.

"Love to cook actually. Love to eat as well." John brought some dark rye bread to the table and sat down. "The weekends are the only time I have a chance to make my own meals, weekdays are mostly at the hospital canteen. Mind if we share?"

Sherlock shook his head and soon they were passing the tub between them and taking spoonfuls. John getting up again to bring some ham from the fridge and build a simple sandwich for himself. He paused at one point and looked at Sherlock but did not say anything.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "My meals are on a schedule. I cook mostly from scratch and take care it is balanced." Finished, he got up and put the spoon in the quite full sink.

John nodded. "Meat or fish on Sundays?" Not getting up he took another bite of his sandwich and another spoonful of the yogurt. Watching John eat was comforting.

"Yes. And yogurt is something I have every evening." He felt a bit uneasy but pushed on. "Being on a schedule, taking control of my environment, it's important. And I do relapse occasionally. But no hospital stays in years now. Not for the food issues or... other issues." His hand twitched.

John was up and returning the remaining ham to the fridge. He glanced at Sherlock then at the shelves. "So, what's Sunday breakfast?"

No prodding, no questions, no doctorly advice. And a smile. "It's eggs."

John leaned against the fridge, arms crossed and face relaxed. "Well, I don't like to boast but I make very good Sunday breakfast eggs."

He took a step forward and embraced John who eagerly wrapped his arms around him. "John. I'd really like to try. You. This."

John looked up at him. "Yeah, me too."

He leaned in and kissed him. A series of slow kisses, gentle, breathy. He could feel the rough texture of John's wool jumper under his fingers, the muscles underneath it. John was clearly aroused but allowed Sherlock to dictate the tempo, only tenderly touching at his waist, his back. 

Sucking John's bottom lip Sherlock slid his hands lower and cupping his buttocks pushed his body and his erection against John's. And John shivered moaning into his mouth.

"Tell me what you need."

He pulled back to look at John. Pink cheeks, red moist lips. He ran one finger across those lips. "I'd like to see you naked." No hesitation. He surprised himself.

"On the sofa? Or..."

He was sure now. "On your bed."

John brushed his lips in a brief kiss once more and led him by hand towards one of the doors.

Behind it was a bed, and even in the semi darkness it was clearly John's bed. John switched on the bedside lamp. A nest of clean white but tangled linens, a pile of paperbacks on the floor next to it. A basket overflowing with washed but unfolded clothes.

John gave him a smile and set to clearing the bed. He fluffed up the pillows and looked a bit lost, one hand touching the edge of his jumper. Waiting for permission to proceed?

Sherlock realized he was touching the buttons of his shirt in an unconscious nervous gesture. He lowered his hand. He was no longer hard.

"Would you like to borrow something of mine? Something more comfortable to change into?"

He was surprised. "Yes, yes, that would be good."

John walked to the laundry basket and pulled out pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. "How about this? You can change in the bathroom." John pointed to the door.

Sherlock nodded and taking the items walked out of the room.

With a practiced move he entered the small bathroom with eyes glued to the floor. The sink and dreaded mirror were on the right. Toilet on the left. He turned away from the sink never lifting his eyes. He stripped and neatly folded his clothes on the side of the bath. He hesitated a bit with his boxers, then shucked them off too. John's shirt was slightly too big for him and the pajama bottoms didn't reach his ankles, but the clothes smelled of John, or rather John's preferred detergent. He took the opportunity to relieve himself and, eyes tightly closed, wash his hands and his face.

He stepped into the bedroom to see John sitting in the bed, duvet pulled up to his waist, the clothes he was wearing were now on the dresser.

John extended a hand, smiling. "Come here."

Sherlock joined him on the bed but kept a bit of distance, kneeling for a moment by the edge of the duvet before settling at his side. It was hard to keep his eyes off the sparse blond hair that covered John's chest. He reached out and ran the tips of his fingers lightly over it. John shivered once more.

"No expectations?"

John placed his hand over Sherlock's. "No expectations."

"I'd like to explore." He blushed. John smiled and nodded. He lowered his hand onto the mattress.

He hesitated slightly. "Close your eyes?"

And John did.

He came closer and placed both of his hands on John's chest, feeling the skin, tracing small scars and birthmarks. Arms, shoulders, chest, sides. John squirmed a bit. Ticklish. John was quite fit but there was some softness around his stomach and Sherlock found that very attractive. He brushed his thumbs along the edge of the duvet but did nothing to remove it.

He leaned down and kissed John's chest. A small moan. Then trailed kisses across his shoulder and up his neck. John's head was resting back on the edge of the headboard, eyes still closed, mouth open. His breathing was hard and his hands clenched and unclenched on the mattress.

Holding both his hands on John's stomach Sherlock licked his collarbone and sucked hard at where it met the neck. John was positively twitching under his hands and lips. And yet he did not open his eyes or move.

Taking in the incredible sight Sherlock slowly pulled away the duvet and uncovered John completely.

Beautiful, the man was just beautiful. Strong legs covered with golden curls. Narrow hips. And a dark pink and very thick cock.

Sherlock adjusted his own erection in the pajama bottoms.

He slid one hand down a muscled thigh, enveloped his fingers around a solid knee, then further to touch an ankle and a very tempting foot. John's skin was becoming damp with sweat, his breathing labored.

He slid a hand to separate John's thighs slightly and John bit on his lip and shifted his knees open. John was loudly panting now, clearly struggling to keep still. He felt up slowly until his thumb brushed against John's balls. A broken moan and a small thrust of hips. John's foreskin was pulled back to reveal the damp head of his cock. Sherlock became aware his own breathing was loud.

He'd really like a taste. He leaned down and inhaled. He closed his eyes. Not yet.

He carefully resettled between John's open and slightly shaking thighs. Running his hands all over John's legs, gripping his hips, his waist, then back down and under and towards his buttocks. John's knees pulled slightly up and his thighs fell farther apart. Sherlock was in awe at this display. So open, so vulnerable, so patient. He gently palmed his erection through the cotton fabric and reached out to touch John's cock with his other hand.

As his fingers come into contact with hot flesh John cried out buckling under his touch. Beautiful.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." John's voice was low and rough. His own cock twitched.

"Open your eyes."

John looked shattered. Fisting the sheets. Knees shaking. Eyes on Sherlock's face and the hand just lightly brushing his cock. Panting.

Sherlock met his gaze and wrapping his fingers around that exquisite cock squeezed. With a broken voice John involuntarily thrust up once more, pushing into Sherlock's grip, shaking violently now. His foreskin was pulled back and a drop of fluid slid down Sherlock's fingers. He could not take his eyes of the man under him. So open, so desperate, asking for nothing and allowing him everything. He had never been this aroused.

"Do that again, please."

John thrust up and his eyelids fluttered.

"Again."

He adjusted his fingers around John's hard cock and watched as the man thrust up bracing his hands and feet against the mattress.

It was erotic, thrilling, exquisite. John was thrusting and thrusting, with trembling thighs, with unsuppressed loud moans, desperately fucking into Sherlock's hand with shameless abandon. Breathtaking.

He gave one more squeeze and with a choked stutter John ejaculated in several pulses over his chest.

Under him, wet with sweat and smeared with semen, John was panting and shivering. He pushed the bottoms down and brought the same dripping hand to his own cock. As John watched biting his lip he roughly and quickly brought himself to orgasm.

John again extended a hand, smiling. And Sherlock, after clumsily pulling his soiled bottoms off to wipe John's stomach and chest, crawled up to lay on top of him. Arms gently enveloped him as he settled with his face in the crook of John's neck.

"All right?" John asked softly one hand on the naked skin of his lower back.

He nodded and sighed. He was happy, so very happy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showered and dressed in a combination of his trousers and John's navy blue t-shirt with long sleeves, Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John on one knee filling the cat food bowl.
> 
> "Just in time. Tea?"

He squinted. There was light, sunlight. Was it morning? He was hot. And, oh.

The t-shirt had ridden up, halfway up his chest. His front was plastered along John's warm naked back, an arm wrapped tightly around John's middle, the hand spread over his naked abdomen. His fingers twitched but John continued to breathe deeply.

His leg was nudged behind John's thighs. Oh. His hips unintentionally jerked forward. He froze. John, who was now slightly snoring, who smelled amazing, whose flesh was so warm and inviting. Whose buttocks encased Sherlock's emerging erection.

He was stunned. Waves of pleasure overcame him and he took steadying breaths to keep still. He focused on the naked body in his arms. This unassuming man who was relentless, steady, calm. Who now slept in his arms.

He shifted gently to accommodate his jutting cock. And sighed as it brushed just under John's arse. Calming breaths were not going to help.

He was lost in his thoughts and the sensations of touching this sensual body, this wonderful man. And then John pressed back. His cock slid lower and he choked.

"Good morning." John's voice was low and raspy, with a hint of humor.

His face burned. He tried to say something but buried his mouth in John's hair instead. John's hand covered his own and he pressed back again in invitation.

"John..." He allowed his hips a few small jerks forward, the friction along his cock tantalizing.

"This is perfect, you are perfect." John stretched his arms above his head and brought Sherlock's face to his neck, pressing his buttocks back again and again.

Hearing John's words, he ran his hands along his uncovered chest and shifting even more of his weight onto John's body started thrusting in earnest, sucking and biting at the shoulder and neck.

John was grunting. And he had to know if this was reciprocated. He slid a hand down and was met with a stiff erection. He whimpered with desire, his hips erratically shoving into John's flesh.

John whispered. "There is lubricant, somewhere under the pillows."

Not letting go he pushed one arm around until his fingers gripped smooth plastic. Cold, slick gel, an abundance of it. Over his cock, John's buttocks and thighs. He pushed, groaned at the pleasure, wrapped his still slick hand around John's plump erection.

He lost control. Just feeling. Barely aware of the sounds they were making. His movements possessive, needy, insistent. And John kept thrusting back. He bit down on his shoulder and ejaculated with a hoarse groan. John was whispering, straining, pushing and fucking into his hand, taking a few more moments to chase his own release.

The room was still, only their joint breathing audible.

John whispered. "Perfect, fucking perfect."

"You are, perfect for me." He was reluctant to shift away and held John to his chest.

John stretched with a yawn. And giggled. And turned reaching for a kiss. They kissed lazily for long minutes.

John pulled away and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. "Would you like a shower?"

Sherlock squirmed looking around the bed and pulled up a corner of the duvet over himself. "I'm naked, or almost..."

John winked, then got up and took the few steps towards the laundry basket. He stood there very naked but obviously not concerned about it. An arresting sight.

"What about this, or this?" He pulled out a large gray towel, a pair of sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt with long sleeves.

Sherlock sat up wrapping the duvet tightly around himself looking down at traces of lubricant on his t-shirt. They looked at each other and laughed. John brought the items to him and bent over for another kiss.

"OK, I'll go first. You take your time."

The shower was running. Sherlock got up and wrapped the large towel around his waist. It almost reached the floor. His own clothes were still in the bathroom. He took a few steps around the room picking up a paperback, peering into an open dresser drawer of socks, looking through the window at an unremarkable alley.

John walked in naked and damp, his skin pink from the shower, towelling off his hair. He suddenly felt self conscious in a stained t-shirt and towel.

John grinned and shook his head. "Just... gorgeous." He threw the wet towel on the bed, walked up to Sherlock and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. "Now, take that shower, I'll dress and get a start on our Sunday eggs."

Eyes on the bathroom floor Sherlock was grinning. "Our Sunday eggs," he whispered to himself. And just like that, without even taking a breath, he lifted his eyes to meet his reflection in the mirror. It had been years. Looking back was an open smiling face, wrinkles around the eyes, plush well-kissed lips, ringlets of hair sticking out in all directions, John's well-worn t-shirt. He looked happy, healthy, content. "Our Sunday eggs," he whispered to the reflection.

Showered and dressed in a combination of his trousers and John's navy blue t-shirt with long sleeves, Sherlock entered the kitchen to find John on one knee filling the cat food bowl.

"Just in time. Tea?"

"Yes, thanks." He sat down and eyed the spread. Dark rye bread, butter, cheese, the eggs, a pot of jam.

John poured their tea and joined him. "Oh, I'm starving."

He had some eggs, and even took a piece of butter slathered bread from John's plate.

"So, you keep lubricant under your pillow?" He gave John an inquisitive look.

John swallowed and giggled wiping his mouth. "I have sensitive skin."

"You... how often do you... Am I being too forward in asking?"

"What, too forward after nearly fucking me through the mattress this morning?"

His face burned red but John just happily laughed.

"Which was amazing by the way. As was last night." He took Sherlock's hand. "And to answer your question I masturbate regularly, usually before going to sleep, few times a week. Well, a bit more since past Sunday, a lot more." John cleared his throat.

"More?"

"Had to take an extra... coffee break Wednesday at work." John winked.

Sherlock froze mid-sip. Then they both burst out laughing.

"You?"

"Not at work, no. And not regularly. I have some body issues which had at times made it difficult." He set the cup down and smoothed out the front of his t-shirt, frowned.

"I'm a doctor, I know it doesn't work like that, but you have to know that I find you so very beautiful, impossible to resist. Having your hands on me..." John picked up his hand and kissed his palm.

"And you don't mind not being allowed to put your hands on me? To undress me, touch more than my hand or face or back? To have unrestrained sex like you'd have with someone who doesn't have my issues?"

"It is frustrating, of course I long to touch you everywhere, kiss you everywhere." He kissed his palm and wrist. "But having you take control, having you demand, it heightens my arousal actually. Any sex I've had in the past few years pales in comparison, issues or no issues. Not that I want to compare. Because I've never wanted anyone like I want you, Sherlock. And I am not only talking about sex."

"I've never been in a relationship. Never even attempted. But... I want to, with you. How long can you wait?"

Another kiss to his palm and John rested his hand on his cheek. "This is fine, this is amazing, I'm not waiting for anything. I'm touching you right now, am I not? We're having breakfast after amazing sex and I like seeing you in my shirt." He smiled. "Let's sit on the sofa, we'll be more comfortable. Would that be ok?"

"You wouldn't have to ask someone else... OK, sofa." Sherlock relented.

They moved to the sofa hand in hand, John returning to the kitchen to get more tea. Then sitting down and maneuvering them until Sherlock rested against his side with John's arm around his middle, hand just on the waist.

"OK, my Sundays. Well, post pub football and beer they sometimes start with a nasty hangover, an aspirin, a wank in the shower. And lots of tea. Lazy film watching with George on the sofa, dinner and sometimes an evening run in the park. You?"

Sherlock smirked. "We're talking routines?"

"Why not? I want you aware of what next Sunday may bring. I have awful taste in films."

Sherlock kissed him. "All right. I prep for the coming week. Schedule, cleaning, laundry. Protein meals. Honey in my tea. Some reading. All very boring." He kissed John's neck and taking his hand in both of his own placed it on his sternum. He shivered. No one, no one had touched him there in a very long time, it was a strong trigger. And yet John's touch felt warm and comforting.

"Can you stay a bit?"

"Yes." He smiled.

They talked. John played music and spoke about his collection of vinyl records. They baked a chicken with root vegetables and had it with salad and beer. Watching an action film turned into a passionate kissing session and George ran off. Daylight was running out.

John spoke first. "My schedule is hectic this week. Perhaps an early lunch on Wednesday, if you can make it?"

"I have ample overtime, I can make it. The hospital?"

"There is a small cafe just across the entrance. Not too bad. Would a soup or pasta work for you?"

"Yes, that'd be great."

He got in the taxi. They'd both been reluctant to let go, kissing softly by the door for a long time.

Back home he cleaned a bit, but the flat was in order. Or having the perspective of John's flat made it seem immaculate. Still, he kept to his Sunday routine, changing the bedsheets, packing the laundry to drop off on his way to work tomorrow morning. It was boring.

He made some camomile and brought the cup and his laptop to his bed to check e-mails and do some reading. Sipping the infusion he looked around the room, the expanse of the large bed. It was too quiet, empty. He felt a twinge of yearning and brushed his palm across his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John?" He put one hand on his arm and lowered himself on one knee in front of his chair. John looked up with a small smile.
> 
> "Hm? Sorry, just bone tired. But couldn't wait until tomorrow to see you." He was shivering slightly as he took Sherlock's head in both his palms for a long, lazy kiss.
> 
> "That's ok." He squeezed his hip. "Why don't we have an early night?" He got up and kissed John's temple. Then took his hand and led him towards the bedroom.

"Miss you."

It was the simplest of messages. And he had been staring at it most of the morning, again and again taking out his phone at work to take another look. And grin repeatedly, to the amusement of at least one colleague in the lab. John missed him.

Oh, and how he missed John. Setting and resetting the pillows on his bed in the evening, waking too early and too cold, staring at the tea pot and wanting to pour two cups, looking at the empty fireplace.

They exchanged messages, reminded each other of their Wednesday lunch date. As if there was any chance Sherlock could forget. He was practically counting down the minutes. He'd planned which shirt and suit to wear, he'd had his hair cut four days ahead of schedule. He'd visited the shop on his way from work on Monday and bought a bottle of the same lubricant John used, kept it under his pillow for some future occasion. No stalling, no second thoughts. He really did want this.

He was slightly early at the cafe and sat with a teacup in front of him. It was quite busy with hospital personnel and visitors, either sitting down for a quick sip of soup or a hot drink, or ordering take out and rushing back. He waited, looked at the freezing drizzle fogging up the street, observed the worried, or fatigued, or disinterested faces. Tea spills and wooden stir sticks left on the small tables. The hiss of the espresso machine, the fake grins and chirpy voices of the rushed personnel. He was uncomfortable.

The hour came and passed. He checked his messages, nothing. Every time the entrance door opened he jerked his head up. But it wasn't John.

Did something happen? Or did John have some time to think things over and decided this was a mistake? 

No, no. He knew it did not make sense to draw that conclusion. But the uncertainty edged into his thoughts anyway. He was nervously sweating, turning the long empty cup in his hands. No new messages. Half an hour more. Someone knocked against the back of his chair startling him.

As he was finally about to leave, his jaw stiff, his coat already on, John jumped in from the street and frantically searched the room with his eyes. Sherlock caught his gaze and shakily exhaled.

John rushed to stand in front of him and took both his hands. "I am so very sorry. We've been swamped." He almost reached to kiss Sherlock but pulled back, clearly worried. "And I managed to forget my mobile this morning..."

Sherlock took a look at his unshaven, tired face. And bent down for a tight hug. "Think nothing of it, I'm in no hurry." He spoke pushing his mouth against John's neck, breathing in and allowing himself to ease some of the tension. They stayed embracing for what was probably too long for such a public space.

John pulled away with a small exhausted smile. "I only have fifteen or so minutes. Have you eaten anything?"

"No. But I can eat later."

John guided him towards the counter, then continued to hold his hand. "Let's at least get a sandwich. Would that be ok?" He rubbed his eyes. "I'm starving."

They ordered, plus two teas, and sat down at a table.

John was blowing on the tea to cool it and taking large bites out of his sandwich. "Not what I planned for today, I'm afraid. But we have two colleagues out with this flu and it is beyond hectic."

"It's ok. We can meet when you have a day off." He ate a little himself, but found he wasn't too interested in the food. The cafe kept getting noisier. He cleared his throat.

John smiled still chewing. "I also took over more hours to get the weekend off again."

"Oh." Sherlock shyly smiled back.

"If I make it to the weekend." A sigh, one more sip of his tea, and John was already getting up. "I am truly sorry." He buttoned his jacket and leaned down to kiss Sherlock on the cheek and whispered. "I'll make it up to you?"

And he was gone.

Sherlock glanced at the remains of the sandwich on his own plate and reached to button his own coat and leave. He forgot to ask if weekend meant two or three more days of waiting.

He was back at the lab, eyes on the screen in front of him but not really seeing the numbers displayed. Inexplicably feeling lost, powerless and small. At the same time he knew he was being unreasonable, immature in allowing himself to become upset over nothing. Nothing had happened. His feeling overwhelmed was not John's fault. After all, his own work had always taken priority over anything else that came up. Not that much came up in his life. Until John. Still, an uneasy edginess crept in and wouldn't leave him.

He did want a relationship with John. He just didn't know how to handle one. Well, as in all other aspects of his life, he'd take it day to day.

It turned out weekend meant Friday evening. And he felt ambivalent. Of course he wanted to see John as soon as possible, but at the same time he was aware of his own agitation, and the risk it carried. He stuck to his routines but slept poorly and had to force himself to eat regularly. Perhaps he did need one more day, a Saturday morning away from the lab to take a long walk and gain some perspective on how he felt strained.

Impatience to see and touch John won out. He decided to forgo the distraction of a restaurant and sent a message inviting him to his flat for dinner Friday after his shift.

He had decided on a rice pilaf, a hearty vegetable dish spiced with saffron and almonds he thought could be left covered to sit a while if John was again late. He kept thinking John will be late, or wouldn't come at all. The table was set, the radio playing, the wine in the fridge. He ran a hand down the front of his fresh shirt.

And the doorbell rang, just in time.

John, hair and cheeks wet from the rain, walked in as he opened the door looking even more exhausted but beaming. Without a word, without taking his soaked jacket off, he embraced him and kissed his cheek. Sherlock sunk into his arms.

"So good to see you. It's been a hell of a week." He spoke softly against Sherlock's skin. "And I've missed you too much. Weekends are too far apart."

Sherlock rubbed his lips in John's hair and held on. His heart was beating too fast. They stayed clinging to each other for some time. Until John swayed slightly in his arms and he stepped back to plant a very gentle kiss on John's lips. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving." John dryly laughed blinking at him.

"Come on then." Sherlock walked to the kitchen to get everything ready as John shucked his jacket and shoes, stretching out his stiff neck and shoulders.

"Thank you for cooking." John sat down and he served the food. He really did look worn out. It was clear he'd rushed home after his shift for a quick shave and shower, changed his clothes.

"You cooked for me last Sunday, breakfast and dinner. You're surely the better cook so don't be disappointed."

"Well, I'd have to stay for breakfast for full comparison..." They both laughed and Sherlock finally relaxed.

They ate slowly, drank each a glass of wine, spoke about John's long hours at the hospital, the old neighbor who liked looking after George when John was away, Sherlock's argument with one colleague in a partner institution.

As he cleared the table he noticed John, head down, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. He closed the dishwasher and washed his hands.

"John?" He put one hand on his arm and lowered himself on one knee in front of his chair. John looked up with a small smile.

"Hm? Sorry, just bone tired. But couldn't wait until tomorrow to see you." He was shivering slightly as he took Sherlock's head in both his palms for a long, lazy kiss.

"That's ok." He squeezed his hip. "Why don't we have an early night?" He got up and kissed John's temple. Then took his hand and led him towards the bedroom.

He left John, unsteadily pulling off his jeans, to quickly change and brush his teeth in the bathroom.

John was already under the duvet, eyes closed. He looked as if he'd already fallen asleep. He looked gorgeous and it felt so comforting having him here, in his bed.

"Come." John whispered. And he did, curling under John's arm and settling against his solid chest. John sleepily kissed him. He finally felt all the pent up tension in his body dissipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is two months since I started what I thought would be a short and quick fic. But the story had a mind of its own and RL kept getting in the way. I am so thankful for your patience and will try to push this to the end without more delays!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gingerly pushed John off to the side and scrambled off the bed clutching one corner of the sheet. His legs folded under him and his knees hit the floor with a dull thump. 
> 
> A feeling of panic overwhelmed him. What could he do? This was a mistake. A mistake.

He couldn't breathe. Thick hands were crushing his chest, pushing him under, under. The blunt fingers dug in deep, sunk between his ribs, and all he heard was his own hollow gasping. And it was dark, the kind of syrupy-thick blackness that entered your mouth, nostrils, seeped under your eyelids. He couldn't move. He didn't feel his arms, legs, they were gone. He couldn't breathe!

He awoke gagging and disoriented. His room, it was his bedroom. And John's sleeping form over his side and chest. And...

No. Oh, no. Please, no. 

The bed under him was wet and cold. No.

He gingerly pushed John off to the side and scrambled off the bed clutching one corner of the sheet. His legs folded under him and his knees hit the floor with a dull thump. 

A feeling of panic overwhelmed him. What could he do? This was a mistake. A mistake. There was no way to hide this, to escape. No, no.

"Sherlock?" John stirred.

And he crumpled further, sobbing, choking.

John saw. He was getting up. John was leaving.

"Hey, hey, it's me." A tentative hand touched his elbow and he bawled.

"It's ok. It's ok. Here, let go." The sheet corner was untangled from his clinging fingers. "Can I hug you, is that ok?"

He heard an empty echo of his own voice, chanting, "no, no..."

A long time must have passed. He was cold, shivering in his wet pajamas. He wiped at his eyes and runny nose with his sleeve. John was on the floor next to him, naked, with one hand around his knees, the other extended towards him, palm up along the wooden floorboards but not touching.

They looked at each other. He didn't know what to do.

"I'm cold, you must be too." John's voice was calm and steady.

Sniffling, he nodded.

"I'm going to pour you a bath, ok? I'll be right back."

He nodded again, feeling numb and lost.

John stiffly got up and walked towards the bathroom. Soon he heard the water. He looked up. The duvet had been thrown off and an ominous dark spot marred the middle of the bed. He closed his eyes.

"How about getting up?" John offered his hand. He shivered and looked away, pushing off the floor by himself unsteadily as John's hand slowly dropped to his side. He couldn't look at him.

He was humiliated.

"I can go with you...? Or not." John' voice was less certain.

He shuffled towards the bath aware how the fabric of his bottoms stuck to his legs wetly.

He closed and locked the door of the bathroom and sobbed again, stripping his pajamas off and stepping into the hot bath. Taking a bar of soap he scrubbed at his skin, eyes closed. He took his time. He gave John enough time to dress, take his things and leave. He washed his hair, pulled the plug and let the shower run over him as he sat in the emptying bathtub.

He dried off and wrapped himself tightly in his warmest bathrobe. Strip the bed, wash the sheets, check the time, force some food down if it was near morning. Another rehearsed routine.

He walked into the bedroom on autopilot. And stopped.

The bed was stripped of the sheets and the mattress pad. The window was cracked open and the room was chilly.

He rushed into the kitchen to find John, in last night's jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, sitting next to two cooling cups of tea. John gave a small anxious smile.

"Tea's gone cold. I'll make some fresh..."

"You're here?" He lingered by the door. The laundry machine was churning, the bottle of detergent on the counter.

"Do you want me to leave?" John frowned.

Instead of answering he went to fill the tea kettle himself. He kept his back to John. "Do you want to stay?"

"Yes, yes I want to stay Sherlock." John's voice was shaken. "But if you tell me to leave I will leave."

He rubbed his eyes. His voice was barely audible. "How can you want to stay?"

"May I hold you now, please."

He nodded. And without pause John got up, came to him and wrapped his hands around his waist and rested against his back breathing deeply. Sherlock softly sobbed as tears again filled his eyes. He touched one of the warm hands holding him.

"It hasn't happened in a while. I didn't think it would happen... I..."

"I don't care. Just let me hold you for a bit." And he did.

The kettle clicked off and they made tea together. John rinsing the cups and Sherlock getting the milk from the fridge. They sat at the table.

"It's seven. A bit early for a day off but we could have breakfast if you're up for it?" John asked sipping his tea.

"Didn't plan your first proper breakfast here like this." Sherlock still kept his eyes everywhere but near John.

"There'll be many more. If that's something you'd like..."

Sherlock looked straight at him. "Why didn't you leave?"

"I don't want to leave."

He got up to busy himself with something. "Oatmeal?"

"That be great."

Pot, oats, water, salt... "You're not... disgusted?"

"I'm a doctor, remember."

"I'm not your patient, not any longer." He kept his back to John and stirred the oats.

"No, no you are not. You're much more now."

"This might happen again. This will happen again."

"OK."

He turned to see John shrug his shoulders. "No, no, it is not just 'ok'." His tone was a tad too harsh.

John just crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "It hurts me to see you hurt. But it won't make me leave."

Back to stirring the oatmeal which was now bubbling. "Hm, I usually have raisins and cinnamon on mine."

"Well, I hate raisins."

He turned to look at John and was met with a cautious smile. They looked at each other. "You're stubborn."

"I am, about raisins in particular."

He turned to get the pot off the hob but was sure John caught his own small grin.

They had the oatmeal, John his with honey, and more tea while listening to the morning program on the radio. It was surprisingly comfortable after all.

"Plans for today?" John asked.

He looked at the window, it was raining heavily again. "Well, a walk is out of the question."

"So we stay in?" He smiled warmly.

Sherlock put his spoon down. "That was probably the worst of it. The nightmares, the... the bedwetting. If you can ignore a tightly scheduled life, that is."

John nodded letting him continue.

But he was too embarrassed to keep talking. Jittery, he got up and cleared the bowls, ran some water, opened and closed the refrigerator. This lasted a few minutes.

"How about we sit on the sofa?" John got up but did not move towards him or the sitting room, his hands just hanging at his sides.

He looked at the man. Exhausted, barefoot, unshaven, wearing yesterday's clothes. Still patient with him. He felt a surprising warmth in his stomach.

"Why don't you shower and I'll dress?" He said quietly.

Fifteen or so minutes later John returned wearing a different pair of trousers, t-shirt and cardigan, wool socks. His cheeks were pink, his hair slightly damp. Sherlock was dressed too, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with his laptop. He closed the lid and put it aside. Tapped the sofa with his hand and then felt a bit silly. Still, John did not mind. He smiled and joined him, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

"Shower was good?" He wanted to continue, but they were both tense. And too far apart. He slid a bit towards the middle of the sofa.

"Yeah." John smiled and closed the distance until their thighs were just touching.

"I was a difficult child. Anxious. My parents were distant but I suppose they did their best. There was no abuse, nothing like that. They tried to get me into activities, sports, music. I didn't really fit in. Still, it was not too bad a childhood, if very lonely."

He took John's hand and immediately felt a bit better.

"I'd had nightmares as a child. One doctor called it 'an overactive imagination', another 'a phase'. The nightmares never went away. But the nocturnal bedwetting stopped about the time I started school. There were several recurrences, too rare for my mother to insist on another psychiatric evaluation..."

John was running his thumb over his hand. He rested his head on John's shoulder.

"At university I started with the drugs. It was an experiment at first. I was tired of being the odd one. It made me less awkward, more at ease in social situations." He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "The usual. And, of course, it got out of hand. Fairly quickly. And that all coincided with some bad attempts at... at sex. I hadn't fully figured out if I was into women, men, or into anyone, or no one for that matter. There were some crushes.. I handled it all... inelegantly, I suppose. I started self-harming. The drugs situation got bad, no longer an occasional weekend thing. And the bedwetting had returned in force, paired with some anxiety attacks. I spiraled down into the worst of it after... that you know already."

John had shifted him to hold him fully in an embrace as he spoke.

"And it never really went away. I keep several sets of sheets. I'm prepared for it to happen. But I wasn't really thinking about... how to handle it in a relationship."

"You had a panic attack this morning."

He ran his nose along John's neck. He was warm and smelled fantastic. Instead of making him more anxious the embrace relaxed him. He kissed along John's jaw. "I did."

"Did I trigger it?" John was running his hands over his back. He snuggled closer, wrapped his hands around John's waist and continued kissing and licking his neck.

"I had a nightmare... I felt your weight on me, maybe... Or that was not what caused it. I don't know. I had been agitated all week. I'm sorry it happened. I like sleeping with you. More than sleeping alone."

"I like sleeping with you too. But, if you think we are moving too fast..."

"I miss you. I miss you every night. And this morning I thought you'd leave." He was half sitting in John's lap by now. His voice was shaky. "I didn't know how to handle losing you."

"I'm here. I'm staying here, with you."

He pulled back to look at John. "And you'd still want me? I mean..." He was barely audible and his gaze slipped to the side. "... sexually? You're not disgusted?"

John lips pulled into a roguish grin. He took one of Sherlock's hands from his waist and slowly moved it towards his navel. Sherlock slid it further down on his own and was met with an undeniable erection.

"Oh."

John blushed and pulled him in for a kiss. A long and very passionate kiss.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only slight pause Sherlock striped off his own shirt, knelt between John's open legs and lowered his body until he covered him completely. He exhaled.

John was softly snoring. John was softly snoring while stretched out on his stomach on Sherlock's sofa. His head in the crook of one arm, the other dangling towards the floor, his cardigan and shirt pulled up to reveal naked skin just above the waist of his trousers, the dip of his spine.

John was having a nice long Saturday afternoon nap on his sofa. And Sherlock was sitting in his armchair and reading up online on cats' reactions to moving house. And watching John. Mostly watching John. How one foot would sometimes twitch, the wool sock having already slipped down past the ankle. Sherlock stared at the ankle, imagined licking a wet stripe across it, and blushed even more than he had during their pre-lunch kissing session on that same sofa.

John stirred and he was caught staring. He frowned quickly at the laptop screen, feeling his cheeks burn.

"Hm, it's nice to wake up and find oneself in such gorgeous company."

He looked back at John. "Rested?"

John was turning onto his back and stretching with a yawn, and inadvertently putting on a display of unruly dark blond curls just below his navel. He couldn't stop staring, even if John was watching him now. "Yeah. How I love these weekend naps. And you? E-mail? Or looking at cat pictures on the internet?"

"I... I wasn't looking at cats..." Sherlock closed the laptop with a bit too much force.

John giggled. "Porn then?"

"John! What... No!"

"We could look at... that together..." John was enjoying teasing him. "Although I prefer what I can see in this very room." He let his eyes roam Sherlock's body.

Well, now was as good a time as any. He didn't want to wait. "It was cats actually." He cleared his throat and set the laptop on the side table.

"Seriously? Cats?" John sat up, curious.

"When you got George..." Courage. "... did it take him a long time to settle in? Was he disturbed by the move?"

After a brief moment of confusion John's face beamed the largest smile. They were both silent for a while. Sherlock smiled back nervously.

"You know, I don't think he'd mind another move. Neither would I, if I could go with him."

"Good. That's good." This wasn't too difficult, John understood.

"But you should know there would be some requirements." John spoke slowly.

"Like what? Special cat food?"

"Yeah, and... digestive biscuits in the kitchen cupboards. And that has consequences..."

"Hm?" Sherlock pretended to brush something off his left knee.

"There would be biscuit crumbs on the sofa. Tea cups on the floor." Still grinning.

He shifted in the armchair. "Not an issue. I do leave an unwashed tea cup in the sink... once in a while."

"I work long hours, raid the fridge after midnight, leave milk to spoil on the counter." John was sitting on the edge of his seat, clearly electrified by the exchange.

Smirk. "I plan my weekly shop in a color-coded spreadsheet."

"I leave muddy shoes wherever I take them off."

"All my books are alphabetized by author and title."

"My vinyl collection is organized chronologically. By that I mean when I purchase a new record I add it to the end of the shelf."

Sherlock outright laughed now. "I cannot have mirrors."

"I never comb my hair."

"I buy a new toothbrush every eight weeks."

"Cool, I'll never have to buy a toothbrush again. Don't mind gently used..."

Sherlock sincerely gasped. John was snickering.

"I've also reworn socks when no clean ones were left."

Oh. Sherlock blushed. "That's actually fine. I've... reworn your socks, the night after the cinema."

"You...?" John's eyes were bulging out. They both dissolved into laughter.

"So, you'd consider moving in with a..." He was not about to lose his nerve, he was enjoying this as much as John, but it was still a very serious conversation. "... former junkie?"

"I've been known to clip my nails in bed. Most people consider that worse."

Could he? He pushed on, mumbling a bit. "I've been known to wet the bed."

And John was off the sofa and with a giggle in his lap and kissing his lips, nose, eyelids, cheeks. "You're amazing."

"How soon? How soon could you move in?" Sherlock was asking in between kisses.

"So, we've chosen your place?"

"It is larger, closer to work for both of us. And there is the fireplace..."

"You're wonderful." And John took his head in both his warm hands and started sucking on Sherlock's bottom lip.

"It could go terribly wrong." Sherlock managed.

"Or you could wake up with me naked in your bed every morning." John moved on to his neck and he was panting slightly.

"You could be naked in my bed right now John."

John got up, laughing merrily again, holding out one hand. "Oh, I could be." He unbuttoned the top button of his trousers and pushed them down a bit. Sherlock pulled him closer and sunk his face into the tempting curly hair enveloping the back of John's thighs with his long fingers. He inhaled deeply. And licked.

John gasped.

He looked up and smiled. Then got up slowly, dragging his fingers over John's buttocks and settling them in the crease. John bit his lip and thrust forward. "Sherlock..."

He pressed his against John's temple and kept up the small touches. "Yes?"

"Bed, please?" John's voice was hoarse. His hands pulled Sherlock towards him.

Sherlock felt so happy, he pulled back to smile at John and kiss him on the lips once more. 

In the end it took them a while to reach the bed. Sherlock pushed John's cardigan off and left it on the armchair. Then the shirt was removed and wound up somewhere on the floor. He held John against the hallway wall and licked and sucked at his chest, biting and leaving marks as they both panted.

In the bedroom both their trousers were unbuttoned and pushed down, he taking John's hands into his own and placing them squarely on his arse. John choked and then squeezed eagerly.

"I'd like you to touch me more John." He rumbled against the skin of his neck and John shivered.

"Yes, yes. Oh, fuck." He was eagerly groping Sherlock.

"So... naked in my bed right now?"

John pulled back to rid himself of the trousers around his knees. "Oh, no, I want to do that." Sherlock slowly guided him backwards until they reached the bed, then pushed him back with a grin.

John fell on his back and laughed, scrambling onto one elbow to look up at him.

Sherlock took off his own trousers, pants and socks leaving them on the floor. He briefly palmed his own stiff cock and watched John stare. Then climbed up next to him and pulled John's trousers off, too. He slid his hands up the downy hair of John's legs and over his very apparent erection. John was shivering. "Please..."

He leaned down and kissed over the fabric, all the time tracing his fingers down strong thighs, over the soft skin behind the spread knees, down quivering calfs to the smooth skin over ankles.

He sat back and took one of John's feet in his hands, pulling off the soft sock and bringing the ankle up for a slow, wet lick. John gasped and closed his eyes gripping the sheet under him with both hands. He slid his lips and brushed them against the arch of the foot. John choked again and covered his eyes with one hand.

"I want to kiss you everywhere." And he kissed, and sucked at the skin, John squirming and blushing. And as he sucked on the smallest of toes John groaned and pushed a hand into his pants to pump his cock.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "No, I haven't finished kissing you everywhere John." 

The other sock and pants were off and Sherlock was sucking bruises into the soft flesh of John's inner thighs while gripping both of his ankles. "I love the taste of your skin." And he swiped his tongue over John's tightening bollocks and up his hefty cock, and John shouted in a broken voice.

He looked up to see John's pink face, mouth open, both hands gripping the headboard. And sucked John's cock as deep as he could.

Soon he had to stop. Because John was very thick in his mouth, and because it was clear John was about to explode. He allowed himself a few deep inhales and soft suckling that enticed John to a low whine, then pulled off.

He sat back on his heels sliding his hands down John's legs to take a look at the man on his bed. Flushed with arousal, sweaty, hoarsely breathing. "You are so gorgeous." He reached for one of his hips and directed him to turn onto his front. John closed his eyes and moaned into the sheets as he spread his knees apart.

With only slight pause Sherlock striped off his own shirt, knelt between John's open legs and lowered his body until he covered him completely. He exhaled. The warmth of John's skin, his shallow panting and small thrusts. He shifted his hands to hold John's hips and sucked the back of his neck with too much force.

"Oh, oh, Sherlock, love..." 

He smiled against John's skin and continued to kiss down his back. He licked into his lovely back dimples with a loud moan.

The silken hair covering John's buttocks was so soft under his fingers. He touched and gently kissed. Sliding his thumbs into the cleft he spread John open and pushed his face to lick unabashedly. 

John shook and tried to speak but only managed a shattered sound and several violent thrusts of his hips.

He took his time slowly lapping until his own need overwhelmed him, his cock painfully rubbing against the sheets. He pulled back to straddle John's thighs and shift him onto his back once more.

They looked at each other. John's tear-stained face and trembling hands that reached to touch. Sherlock towered over him panting, naked, revealed, scarred. And all he saw in John's eyes was desperate want.

"John..." And he crawled up on hands and knees until the tip of his cock brushed at John's lips. And John smiled, wickedly, and opened his mouth. He pushed in. The world around him imploded into the heat of that mouth.

He shouted, reached to touch John's face with both hands, his hips erratically jerking as he fucked his cock into those lips.

He was suddenly aware John had reached up to hold one shaky palm against his bare chest as he roughly jerked his own cock with the other. The thought that John was so lost in lust, the view of his cock past John's lips, it pushed him over the edge. Managing to pull back a bit he ejaculated thick cum into John's gasping mouth and all over his face.

They lay side to side, facing and holding each other, smiling, not speaking. John looked well fucked and happy. And Sherlock felt the same.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On hands and knees he maneuvered back onto John's lap...

Of course he understood that John couldn't move in immediately. Possessions needed to be boxed up, leases and payments handled, post forwarded. And he did not feel unreasonably impatient or nervous. The progress through their list of tasks was steady. Every day of the following week he'd spend some time after work helping John - ordering boxes, making more lists, then playfully debating John's 'no lists I'll just box it together or chuck it out' approach.

In the end there was not much. John did not own any furniture besides the shelf that housed his vinyl collection - the only thing he packed with care. His linens were tattered, as well as some of his clothes and he donated it all alongside two boxes of read paperbacks with cracked spines. In the end there were more boxes of pots, woks, pepper mills and kitchen whatnot than clothes or shoes.

And finally, two weeks after he'd brought it up, John and his boxes were in his sitting room. Their sitting room. It was perfect.

Sherlock hummed with joy and made tea while John unpacked. As George shyly investigated his new treat-strewn territory, John confidently spread his touch everywhere. His possessions found a home in Sherlock's drawers, kitchen cabinets, on the fireplace mantel, the floor.

After some thinking Sherlock had decided that sharing drawers and shelves made him feel better than having separate ones. So John's socks were now mingling with his own. This gave him a strange feeling of satisfaction, assurance even. He checked the open drawers again as the tea cooled a bit, fluffed up the pillows on the bed. John will sleep here every night now. He closed his eyes aware he was grinning like an idiot.

"Hey, you ok? Did I make a mess in here?" John was adding an armful of t-shirts to another drawer.

Sherlock moved to hold and kiss him. John giggled.

"Old pajamas a turn on?"

"Everything about you is a turn on." He kissed John again. "Tea? A short break?"

"Tea sounds good. And good motivation to crack open the kitchen boxes, there are ginger nuts somewhere in there!"

Tea, biscuits, George seeking attention. Soon the unpacking was done and the empty cardboard in the recycling bin. And it was still not that late in the afternoon.

They had installed the small television with an understanding it was to be kept covered when off. But George kept pulling the improvised cover off and after a while Sherlock realized he did not mind, barely noticed the thing. Still, John did notice and had turned the screen to face the wall.

In preparation for the move John had insisted they discuss routines, things that were off limits or situations that could disturb him. After some embarrassment and coaxing Sherlock revealed the details of his tightly scheduled life. Calendar, task list, meal plan, spreadsheets, all of it. John read through everything carefully.

They sat on the sofa the evening of the move and rested as one of John's records played, listening, sipping more tea, casually touching.

"I will make mistakes."

"You can't make mistakes John." He ignored the grunt. "Or if you do they won't be important. The schedule is for me. All of it is a crutch of sorts, you see. Controlled means stable, stable means relaxed. With you it's different."

"But you do need to tell me if something makes you anxious, something I do, or don't do. This all happened quite fast and..."

"I will, I'll tell you." He squirmed a bit and touched John's wrist.

John smirked. "All right. Come here now."

He straddled John and wrapped himself around him. "You live here now."

John took his face in his hands and kissed him. "Yes, I live here, with you." He sighed. "I really wanted this Sherlock."

"Oh, John, you have no idea." Another kiss, this time a longer one that left John somewhat breathless. Sherlock bit his lips and pushed his hands under John's shirt to scratch his nails against the bared skin. John held his hips with an increasingly tighter grip and had started to thrust up with small pants.

He placed his hands on top of John's, tracing their movement up, at once guiding and following John's fingers. As they mapped out the line of his shirt buttons, his collar, as they unbuttoned one, then more buttons revealing his chest.

He was aware his moans and sighs aroused John and he resisted his inclination to keep quiet. As fingers slid across his throat, followed by John's bites and licks.

He wanted more. "Can we finally test the bed now?" Sherlock managed.

John was laughing. "Test the bed? We've been testing your bed, or have you forgotten?"

"Yes, but now we need to test... our bed?" He blushed.

"Oh. By all means. Lead the way." More giggles.

Feeling very bold Sherlock got up, and very slowly, took off all his clothes starting with his unbuttoned shirt, piece by piece, dropping them on the floor as John watched. Naked and deciding that any lingering tension could give way to the happiness he felt, he winked at John and turned to walk towards the bedroom.

By the time he pulled off the duvet to lay on the mattress on his stomach John was in the room, naked, very aroused and clearly waiting permission to come to bed.

"Would you touch me? My back?"

"Yes, yes." John was on the bed and extending one hand slowly to touch his face with reverence. He looked down his back licking his lips and Sherlock felt a warm rush. "You are stunning."

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to just feel as John's hands, then breath and lips, John's tongue, tasted his skin. The exposed side of his neck first, shoulders and back. John straddled him and as his cock brushed against the back of Sherlock's thighs they both moaned. He trembled with need and thrust against the sheet to relieve some of the tension. Every bit of skin John had touched felt hot and beyond sensitive.

John was licking down his spine, his hands trembling and carefully touching Sherlock's hips. Much too carefully. He had a sudden urge to give John everything. He shifted to get up and John quickly got off him.

"All right?" John asked, sitting back on his heels, one hand reaching to steady him.

"I need more." He reached under the pillows and pulled out the lubricant, thrust it into John's hand.

And John turned bright red, cock twitching lewdly. "Are you sure... you..."

He smiled. "Just your hands, fingers. For a start. Slowly." On hands and knees he maneuvered back onto John's lap, thighs spread and on the outside of John's, his pelvis tilted up as he let his chest fall to the mattress, arms splayed.

"Fuck." John was sliding his hands up the back of his thighs.

"I've never done anything like this."

"Never?" John was whispering. "Tell me what to do, or show me." His touch was gentle and slow, one hand reaching over his hip, the fingers of the other brushing along his buttocks, the thumb reaching to spread him slightly. John was breathing heavily.

And Sherlock reached back with both his hands and spread himself open. John gasped.

"Touch me John."

He heard John slick his hands and then felt the cool touch of one sliding finger as it moved down his cleft and over his hole. He moaned into the sheets tilting his hips a bit more and heard John curse again. The touch was gentle and careful, little circles over the muscle, palm sliding down to tease over his sensitive perineum and his bollocks, making everything very wet.

Soon John's hands were everywhere. The tip of one finger pushed inside him. The other slick hand slid around his waist and wrapped his cock into a tight grip. He cried out with pleasure.

"Please, John, please.." He was trembling, his muscles strained, rocking into the touch.

John was wrapped around him, his hands, fingers, touching, pressing and pushing into him more and more. He was aware of John's heavy erection rubbing against his buttocks and thinking of that, thinking of himself spread like this, touched like this, fully at John's disposal.

John pushed in deeper and Sherlock felt the orgasm rip through him. He screamed contracting around John's finger and thrusting into his hand.

For a while he lay twitching slightly. John eased the finger out and helped him into a more comfortable position. He sighed, all muscles melting into the mattress as in the sitting room the record still played.

He also heard water in the distance, then soon felt a damp towel over his buttocks and thighs. He shifted to look at John who watched him in awe, still very flushed and erect, then turned to lay on his back fully.

"Cum on my chest and face. Let me taste you."

John moaned and closed his eyes.

It took John only a few short minutes of stroking himself as Sherlock scratched and pinched his thighs and buttocks. Then he was spilling, thick strands of semen. Salty and bitter. He licked his lips and spread the slick down his scarred chest as John watched panting.

"I'm only yours." He whispered. And John leaned down to kiss him, murmuring into his lips. A good first evening at home.

John liked to spend his evenings reading the awful paperbacks or watching the TV. Which was fine as long as he didn't mind Sherlock curled up on the sofa next to him, one hand on the laptop and another just under the edge of John's shirt. 

Or often he'd lay down with his head on John's lap, his face buried in the jumper covering John's stomach.

"You keep me warm." He spoke into the wool.

"Hm?" John was gently scratching the back of his head.

"I was always cold before."

"Should I get a blanket from the bedroom? Cover your legs?"

"No, this is perfect." He smiled and burrowed a bit closer, if that was possible. John chuckled.

They would walk together, short strolls in the nearby park or longer walks across the city to see a film or to return from a restaurant. They always held hands. This thrilled him beyond words. The public acknowledgment that they were together, that John wanted him just as much as he wanted John.

Shopping for food together was a series of discoveries. Sherlock had his list memorized but now needed to adjust quantities. John didn't mind a meal plan and would assist in stocking up on the essentials, but would then chuck random snacks into the cart as he noticed them. He needed a surprisingly wide selection of chutneys and jams. And biscuits. And wine gums.

He'd added several records of his own to John's collection, classical music, Bach mostly. It took a few tries and long discussions before John stopped referring to is as 'sad piano music'.

They shared socks and t-shirts at home. John was happy with whatever shampoo or toothpaste he encountered. Wet towels appeared in random places in the flat. And all this never bothered him.

A mirror was installed in the bathroom and to commemorate the event they took a photo together which was proudly displayed on his phone's screen to the amusement of his colleagues in the lab.

Bags of crisps took up one kitchen cabinet and appeared in the evenings rustling on the corner of the sofa. The strangest accompaniment to the classical music on the radio. He'd added some to his yoghurt bowl one evening and John laughed and kissed him.

Waking up with John in his bed never ceased to make him smile. Always they were touching, leaning into each other's warmth and often he was holding John tightly to him, wrapping himself around him, his hands seeking the most intimate places. And John didn't mind. John would kiss him, tell him he was gorgeous, slide his hands over his body and wait patiently to be invited to do more. It was a slow exploration. One Sherlock lead, each time asking for more, taking more.

The nightlight still had to be kept on. Perhaps that would never change. He still slept in a t-shirt and still woke from nightmares once in a while, but now to John's light touch and careful smile. Sometimes they'd get up, dress and drink tea on the sofa. Usually they'd go back to sleep. John would hold him, affectionately rocking him in his arms until his muscles relaxed.

He felt wanted, even cherished. In the most everyday moments. It was the best kind of boring. The happy kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> If you began this journey with me more than two months ago, thanks for sticking around, for reading, for commenting, leaving kudos, all of it. This one was very personal for me. This only makes it harder to leave these two but... perhaps small sequels...
> 
> "I trust you too."


End file.
